


Les Petits Fours et Les Petites Morts // Little Cakes & Little Deaths

by vgersix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A dash of post-demonic trauma, Angel Healing, Aziraphale Has Too Many Eyes, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Blasphemy kink, Bubble Bath, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Food, Food Kink, Food Porn, Food as Foreplay, Getting Caught While Jerkin' It, Healing Sex, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Massage, Masturbation, Mild Monsterfuckery, Monsterfuckery, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Rainy day cuddling, Wings, historical flashbacks, softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22350187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/pseuds/vgersix
Summary: Nearly a year after the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't, something has changed in Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship. Chaste little kisses and cuddling on the couch have become the new normal — but there's one problem: Aziraphale enjoys sex almost as much as he enjoys food, and he knows full well that Crowley has zero interest in this particular Earthly delight.So, how is an angel to satisfy his hunger for something other than crêpes without letting his demon know about it, when Crowley is ever-present these days? He’s going to have to get creative, and maybe tell a few white lies along the way.What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 123
Kudos: 550
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Hot Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW for extensive discussions and descriptions of food throughout. This should perhaps go without saying, but I wanted to mention it here anyway.  
> CW for brief mention of past sexual abuse in Chapter Six. 
> 
> If you come across anything that you think I should tag with a TW or CW, please feel free to let me know in comments, and I'm happy to do so.
> 
> For that matter, if you see any typos or anything you think I need to edit, also feel free to point that out as well. We try to catch every mistake, but in a longer piece like this, it's hard to catch them all (*sings Pokemon theme song*) and I always obsess over and worry about it, afraid I've missed one.
> 
> Thank you, friends! Please enjoy!

**1\. Le petit four | pedē ˈfôr/ | noun | plural noun: les petits fours  
a very small fancy cake, cookie, or confection, typically made with marzipan and traditionally served after a meal.**

**⇹ ⇹ ⇹**

**2\. La petite mort | [la pətit mɔʁ], the little death | noun | plural noun: les petites morts  
an expression which means "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and in modern usage refers specifically to "the sensation of post orgasm as likened to death."**

* * *

Aziraphale had started enjoying sexual pleasure right around the same time he’d started enjoying French cuisine. Something about crêpes in particular just got him in the mood to progress from one Earthly delight (food) straight into the next (sex), and at some point the two had become so inextricably linked that he couldn’t contemplate having one without the other.

Sex and crêpes were really not all that different, he thought, when you examined them properly. Always the same base ingredients, but the toppings… there were myriad options —  
different flavors, textures, and indefinable little nuances of style from which to choose. You could go sweet or savory, depending on your mood — main course or dessert. He liked having choices and variety when it came to either indulgence. And while eating had previously been Aziraphale’s favorite human pleasure by far, after a fashion he had come to enjoy sex almost as much.

Of course, the advantage with food was that it could be shared in polite company. Aziraphale was still an angel, after all, and it would truly be a cold day in Hell when even he, hedonist though he might be, could allow himself to go about enjoying sex amongst friends. He understood, of course, that was mostly how it worked for humans. Find someone who suited your tastes, court them, and proceed accordingly. But, Aziraphale had decided early on that sex with mortals might be just a bit more than unethical. And so, a little harmless masturbation had become something he did in his free time when no one else was about.

The problem was, these days, there was always someone about. A very specific someone.

As the months after the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t passed and Crowley did.... not... _leave_ , even for a moment, Aziraphale found himself wishing he could get just a little privacy now and then. It wasn’t that he didn’t love, didn’t revel in every moment of Crowley’s constant presence like a bit of biscuit soaking up so much coffee — he did. But, there were just some things he couldn’t do when Crowley was there. And lately, Crowley was always there.

They alternated between staying in the bookshop and at Crowley’s flat, though certainly more of their time overall was spent in Aziraphale’s space. Even so, on nights when the demon retreated back to his bedroom down the long dark hallway of his flat in Mayfair, Aziraphale didn’t think he had it in him to go around wanking right there in front of Crowley’s plants, who never slept. When Crowley slept in the shop, it was on the battered old couch in the back room, so there really wasn’t anywhere the angel could hide. Aziraphale would busy himself with repairing broken book bindings, polishing leather bound texts, or straightening his shelves — anything to keep his hands busy and not give in to the temptation of wandering over dangerous places on his own body. For centuries, he hadn’t gone more than a week without indulging himself at least once, and now he’d gone almost a year, for fear of inviting Crowley’s attention. It was slowly driving him mad.

He simply _had_ to get Crowley out of the way for a while — find some reason to send him out. An errand, or… something.

“My dear,” Aziraphale began innocently, lowering the book he’d been reading.

“Hmm,” hummed Crowley, eyes glued to his phone.

He was playing some kind of colorful jewel game that went on without end. He’d been playing it for roughly five days, only moving his thumbs and eyes, more or less permanently grafted to the couch at this point. A thin layer of dust had accumulated on his hair and shoulders. Aziraphale found it strangely endearing.

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, “some dinner might be nice. Are you hungry?”

Crowley lowered his phone, blinking for the first time in days.

He’d been sleeping in spurts lately, a few hours draped unconscious over the couch followed by a week of vigilance, seemingly hesitant to retreat into his own mind for very long at a time. Clearly, Aziraphale thought, the demon must be working through his own set of anxieties.

“Oh,” Crowley said. “You want to go out?”

“Ah, no, not necessarily,” Aziraphale countered, shrugging casually. “We could — what do they call it? Order in? I hear that’s quite a popular thing to do nowadays.”

Aziraphale had spent a fair amount of time researching all the modern-day services available, and their various shortcomings. He wanted to play this just right.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, shocked at Aziraphale passing up any opportunity to sip wine in a room full of fascinating humans.

“Right,” he said. “S’pose we could. What are you hungry for?”

 _Oh,_ Aziraphale thought. _You would surely never speak to me again, if only you knew…_

“Ah, well, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, pretending to consider. “Oh, that little French café in Stratford was lovely last month. And their _profiteroles_ were quite delicious…”

Crowley returned his attention to his phone, typing something.

Aziraphale was already getting excited just thinking about the perfect blend of caramel, cream puff, and whipped topping that made up the complex flavor palate of the _profiteroles_ , imagining that delectable dessert filling his mouth with flavor.

“Well, I’ve got bad news,” Crowley said, interrupting Aziraphale’s silent musings. “That dainty little French café is still living in the dark ages. Not surprised, really — it did seem like sort of a one-man operation, didn’t it?”

Aziraphale frowned, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean, dark ages?”

“They don’t deliver,” Crowley said, scrolling with his thumb. “They don’t even… DoorDash, or GrubHub, or anything.”

“Crowley, I don’t know the words that you’re saying.”

At least he wouldn’t have until this morning. But now he thought at least one of them sounded familiar from his research. This was one of the aforementioned shortcomings that had proved critical to his plan.

Crowley looked up, pursing his lips together and letting out a sigh. “If you want it, we’ve got to go and get it.”

“What?” Aziraphale’s mouth fell open, maybe laying it on a bit thick. But, he was committed to the lie now. “Oh, dear.”

Crowley shook his head, blinking apologetically. “Sorry, angel. Even some humans haven’t caught up to the technological revolution. Looks like we’re going for a drive.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, eyeing his book with a pout. “Well, I rather thought I’d finish this chapter, shortly…”

Crowley sighed, getting to his feet for the first time in days. His spine made several popping noises that would have been worrisome in a human. “All right,” he said, stretching his arms overhead. “What do you want? I’ll go and get it.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, Crowley. That’s most kind.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Crowley said, already moving toward the door. “What am I getting? Besides that… profitable… whatever.”

“ _Profiterole_ , dear. It’s the cream puff with—”

“Right, got that. What else?” Crowley said, absent-mindedly picking up his keys.

“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever looks good to you is fine. I trust your judgement.” Then, as an afterthought, “Oh, that soup we had before was quite lovely!”

“Right. Got it. Call me if you think of anything else.”

And with that, he was out the door.

Aziraphale sat motionless for a few seconds, listening to the Bentley roar to life. Its tires squealed as Crowley pulled away from the curb.

He tossed the book aside, leapt to his feet, and all but ripped his trousers off.

His bowtie came next — he tugged at it impatiently with trembling fingers, clumsy in his eagerness to get it off. He tossed it on the coffee table, scrabbling at the buttons on his shirt collar, just undoing the first few so he could _breathe_ easier, and flopped onto the sofa, flat on his back.

He reached for a blanket that lay draped over the back of the couch, pulling it down and over his body. It was a bit cool in the shop, and anyway he liked being under the covers when he did this. It was comforting, and soft, and made him feel less exposed, even if no one was watching.

The first twenty or so times he’d done this, he had been terrified of the idea that someone might be watching. After all, it was a perfectly reasonable fear for an angel to have. Gabriel, or Michael, or any of them really, could have popped in and caught him in the act at any time — and what explanation would he have had? Meals taken in public restaurants he could explain away as simply fitting in with the locals, but this? Done privately in his own space? There was, could be, no reasonable explanation.

He tipped his head back, breathed out a sigh, and tried to think of something inspiring. That sweet little dessert he was going to eat later would do nicely, he thought, beginning to stroke himself. Safer than the obvious alternative.

And that was all it took, of course. The mere suggestion of the thing he _really_ shouldn’t be thinking about… led him to think of precisely that.

Wild, red hair that stood up like the crest of some exotic bird. Sharp, shapely cheekbones. Not to mention those long, delicate fingers that automatically led Aziraphale’s mind toward less than righteous topics.

Aziraphale let his free hand slide up over his stomach, resting across his chest and brushing softly over his nipples, imagining the touch of those infernal fingers — hands made to dance across piano keys. Or better yet, to dance across every ticklish, sensitive expanse of skin on Aziraphale’s body.

Perfect, beautiful Crowley.

But of course the appeal of Crowley went far beyond his physical traits — they were just icing on the cake of his lovely and familiar presence. In a world that was constantly changing around Aziraphale, Crowley was the one constant. His clothing might shift with every new season of fashion, but Crowley himself stayed the same.

Kind. Thoughtful. Considerate. Always eager to please.

For all Aziraphale’s plotting and planning, in the end it had taken little more than a sad pout and a flutter of eyelashes to convince Crowley to bring him dinner. He’d not even had to ask, really — Crowley had simply got up of his own accord and reached for the keys without a second thought.

Tender, loving Crowley.

The demon who had once railed at the thought of being called ‘nice’ while doing just the nicest things whenever given half a chance. He’d saved Aziraphale from the slightest discomforts more times than he could count, had gone out of his way to show affection and care, never once asking for anything in return. And it was true, much as it hurt his heart to think of now, there had been times in the past when Aziraphale had been far less than kind, offering worse than nothing in return — offering cruelty and distrust; pain.

But they were past all that now.

They were well and truly friends. Practically family. And while placing anything so mundane as a human label on what they were to each other would have been nonsensical, surely, Aziraphale had his own ideas concerning what the demon was to him. He was _his_ person. They matched. They were a pair. Whatever that meant, so be it.

He wavered, that familiar sick feeling beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach.

 _Some friend you are_ , he thought. _What would it do to him, if he knew you were thinking about him while you do this? You are truly the worst kind of monster_.

He shook his head, refocusing on the task itself, trying not to think so much of Crowley but simply to focus on the physicality of the thing. Just get it done.

The slide of skin against skin, wet and hungry and wanting. But it was such an innocuous little thing. Harmless, really. Aziraphale couldn’t quite understand what the fuss was about. Humans had, over time, insisted on setting all kinds of rules and restrictions surrounding what kind of sex was acceptable, who it was acceptable to have it with, and when. Had written all kinds of laws into their different holy texts about it, too — placing their own insecurities into the very mouth of God.

It was just a touch. How could that be bad?

His free hand slid away from the hard little nubs of his now quite stimulated nipples, reaching down to palm his balls instead, massaging them.

It wasn’t as if Crowley had never touched him. He quite seemed to enjoy touch, actually. Sometimes a demon might fall asleep in the middle of pursuing the next high score on his mobile game, and a shared couch would suddenly become a shared bed rather unexpectedly. Other times, an angel might become uncomfortable sitting upright while reading through _A Tale of Two Cities_ for the fifth time in a year and might flop over, turning his companion’s lap into a makeshift pillow. Occasionally, a room could grow cold, and while ethereal and occult beings didn’t _necessarily_ respond to changes in temperature, per se — one was still technically part snake at heart and the other had never quite gotten away from associating cozy, fluffy things with the softness of clouds, and so it wasn’t unheard of to wind up huddled beneath a woolen blanket late into the evenings every now and then.

There had even been times when late night reading in the bookshop or in Crowley’s sprawling bed had turned to cuddling and resting of heads on chests, stroking of hair.

Aziraphale touched his own white curls now, wishing it was Crowley’s hand and not his own.

In any case, yes. They had been physically affectionate. It was all very nice, and quite innocent. There was no reason to _talk_ about it. Nothing to explain or analyze. It was just something that happened. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he fully understood what it meant to Crowley, if anything, but that was all right.

There was one thing, however, that Aziraphale understood quite clearly, and it was this: Crowley did not like sex. Crowley did not want sex. And even if he had, he most certainly would not have wanted sex with Aziraphale. Such a possibility was simply too mad even to entertain.

So he threw his head back and began to stroke himself more furiously, hurtling toward his finish as quickly as possible, and tried not to think about the demon.

It was unfortunate, too, because more than any other being on this planet, Crowley was the only person with whom he could have ethically contemplated having a sexual relationship. They were well-matched, and they were counterparts in so many ways. And Crowley was his best friend, and Aziraphale loved him ever so much — more than he’d ever loved anything or anyone, and surely more than he ever would.

He flinched, gasping; the involuntary thrust of his hips telling him he didn’t have long to go now.

 _How selfish you are_ , he thought, chiding himself even as his cock twitched, pre-come dripping from the curl of his tightly fisted fingers. _Fantasizing, wanting more, when what you’ve already been given is such a gift? He’s your friend. Your only friend. The only friend you’re ever going to have. Can’t you be satisfied with that?_

“Hnggh,” he moaned, biting his lower lip. Ah, but he couldn’t help himself, could he? He always wanted more. It was never enough. It never really went away, the hunger. You could only sate it for a while. It always came back. Each time he did this, he would rebuke himself — _No, that’s enough, now. You don’t _need_ to do this. You’re not a human being with a sex drive who can’t help themselves. You’ve got to _want to_. You have to make an _effort_. If you would only stop; leave it alone, will the very organ away... you wouldn’t want this so much, wouldn’t want it at all._ But here he was, month after month, year after year, going about his days with something so ridiculous as a _penis_ between his legs — and thinking about Crowley every time he touched it.

The blanket was beginning to slip up past his bent knees, exposing his lower body to the cool air of the shop. It didn’t matter. He was almost finished.

There was an image in his mind that never failed to get him there. Crowley as he’d appeared in the Garden, all tightly coiled curls of red hair cascading down over his shoulders, reaching seductively into the dark sleeve of his billowing gray robes, pulling out a juicy, delicious looking apple.

“Won't you try some?” He’d say to Aziraphale. “Just a bite.”

Ah, the temptation, the offering — that was the compelling part. Aziraphale’s breath hitched, and he felt his cock twitch in his hand, more insistent this time.

“Just a bite…” Crowley purred. “Ye shall not _surely_ die…”[1]

Aziraphale bit his lip, moaning with pleasure. God help him, he was _so_ close.

At that exact moment, something heavy and metallic hit the floor, echoing through the relative silence of the shop.

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open, and a little involuntary gasp escaped his lips. Crowley was standing there, just inside the door to the back room, mouth agape.

His car keys were on one side of him, the bag of food on the other, both lying where they’d crashed against the stone floor when Crowley had dropped them in shock.

They stared at each other for approximately half a second before Crowley jumped into action.

“Right!” he said, in a voice that was far too high-pitched, “Plates!”

He bolted toward the kitchenette, realizing too late he’d left the bag of food sitting on the floor where he’d dropped it.

“Food!” he shouted, skipping back to grab the bag, and was gone again.

Aziraphale was still frozen, unmoving, hand clutching his now quite flaccid cock. Half the blanket was cast aside onto the floor, the other half bunched up around his shoulders, leaving most of him cold and utterly exposed.

The sound of shattering china finally brought Aziraphale back to his senses, and he pulled his hand away from the _thing_ between his legs. For the first time in years, he silently willed it out of existence, clamoring to his feet. He started to scramble hurriedly back into his clothes, realized his hands were still covered in slick, miracled that away too, and hastily buttoned up his trousers.

“Ah,” he said, trying to think of _anything_ to say. “Everything all right in there?” He winced.

_He might ask the same of you, idiot._

“Oh, sure,” Crowley called from the kitchenette, voice in a slightly more normal register than before. “Sorry, though. You’re one plate short, now.”

Aziraphale shuffled over to the mirror, buttoning his collar back up.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “Rarely have use for all eight of them, anyway. Can’t imagine I’ll have much use for seven, either. It’s just as well.”

He looked an absolute mess. His cheeks were flushed pink, his hair was mussed up into one big curly cowlick, and his clothes were rumpled beyond any hope of smoothing.

In short, he looked like a man who’d just been doing precisely what he’d just been doing.

Leaving off his appearance, which was a lost cause anyway, he turned his attention to the furniture. He grabbed the blanket, wadding it up into a big ball of fabric, and rushed over to the little laundry closet, stuffing it into a hamper. He grabbed a fresh one from the shelf of clean linens, and darted over to the couch, flinging it over top. He had just enough time to shove in a few throw pillows from around the room — giving the whole thing a slightly less drop cloth coverup look before Crowley came out of the kitchenette, a tray of plated food braced between his hands.

He glanced at Aziraphale before turning away, heading into the bookshop proper.

“We’ll eat in the east wing, yeah?” he said, already through the little door dividing the backroom from the shop.

Aziraphale said nothing. What was there to say? He wrung his hands, took a deep breath, and followed quietly after Crowley.

When he got to the east wing, which was really just a little alcove on the eastern side of the building, Crowley had already miracled a high top table and two chairs for them to sit at. He was arranging the plates and tucking the tray under one arm as Aziraphale approached, making every effort not to literally drag his feet.

“Back in a moment,” said Crowley, disappearing back into the kitchenette to return the tray.

He left Aziraphale staring at a perfectly arranged table: two plates full of various pastries, crispy looking vol-au-vent with rhubarb topping, éclairs, and little petits fours. Then there was the main course, two bowls of French onion soup, thin slices of beef, perfectly seared, and a little dab of puréed carrot, mostly for color.

The pile of profiteroles had their own plate in the center of the table. They were stacked high with what must have been two servings of them, all dripping with chocolate and caramel sauce. It made Aziraphale’s mouth water just to look at.

Crowley appeared from between the bookshelves, bringing Aziraphale back to his senses, and reminding him to feel about two inches tall again.

 _Oh, God_ , he thought. _Now I’m just supposed to sit down and eat dinner with him, like nothing happened? Is he just going to… not say anything?_

Apparently that was exactly what he was going to do, because Crowley was opening the bottle of wine he’d brought back with him from the kitchen and pouring two glasses.

“All right,” he said. “Dig in. Don’t want it getting cold.”

Aziraphale looked at his shoes and contemplated saying something. When nothing articulate or useful came to mind, he took his seat and spooned some of the soup into his mouth.

He lasted about thirty seconds before he broke down, uncontrollable little sniffling sounds giving him away as tears dripped into his soup bowl.

Crowley looked up from the piece of meat he’d been tucking into, eyes wide with horror.

“Mmm, angel,” he mumbled around his steak, choking it down quicker than he should have. “Don’t do that.”

Aziraphale was trying very hard to not do that, but was finding it quite impossible. He put his hands to his face, but there was no holding back the tears. They escaped around his fingers, sliding down in little rivulets and staining the tablecloth with wet spots.

“Oh, Aziraphale…”

He heard Crowley slide out of his chair and come to stand next to him. Crowley seemed not to know what to do, hesitant to touch him, and Aziraphale could see where his feet were shuffling back and forth on the floor below, quite literally dancing around the issue.

“Here,” Crowley said simply, passing Aziraphale a handkerchief he’d produced from somewhere, probably a miracle. Aziraphale took it and buried his face in it, breaking down into wracking sobs.

“Ah, it’s all right, angel,” said Crowley. “I’m an idiot. Shouldn’t have rushed back the way I did… Should have knocked, at least. I didn’t—”

And oh, that was worse somehow, having him address it so openly — so kindly. Making it quite clear that Crowley had been ready to breeze right past the entire affair in some hopeless attempt to spare Aziraphale the shame of it. Only now he couldn’t, because the angel could... not... stop... crying.

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale sputtered. “You still drive too b-bloody fast, you know,” leaning forward with a fresh sob.

“Yeah... I know. I’m sorry.”

And God, but he sounded so earnest. It was all Aziraphale could do not to discorporate on the spot. How would he ever be able to look Crowley in the eye again? He’d done a lot of stupid, haphazard, embarrassing things in his time, but this one really had to take the cake.  
_Cake…_ he thought. _Why couldn’t you have just eaten some bloody cake instead and have done with it?_ He let out a little choking hiccup, crying even harder then before.

“All right,” Crowley was saying, sounding more serious and heartfelt than Aziraphale thought he’d ever heard him. “That’s quite enough, don’t you think? Here.”

There was a sound like a bowl being pushed across the table. Aziraphale uncovered his eyes just long enough to see what Crowley was doing.

“Fuck dinner,” Crowley said. “Why don’t you jump right to dessert?”

He speared one of the profiterole on a fork and offered it to Aziraphale. The angel took it in his mouth between sobs.

“T-that’s…” He chewed, tears streaming down his face, “W-what I was trying to do.”

“Yes, all right,” Crowley chuckled. “Good one.”

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands again, choking on sobs between mouthfuls of caramel and chocolate and creamy dough. He moaned, rolling all the flavors around his mouth — they were delicious. Then he realized what he’d done, blushing furiously.

“Oh,” scoffed Crowley, raising his free arm to rest on the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “It’s far from the first time you’ve made sounds like that in my presence. And it's _usually_ over desserts. So that's hardly out of the ordinary."

He skewered another profiterole on the end of the fork, and held it out for Aziraphale to take a bite.

Aziraphale swallowed what was already in his mouth, taking a breath. “Yes, but…”

“Shhh,” said Crowley, sticking the cream puff into the angel’s mouth. “Different context, I know.”

“Crow-ey” Aziraphale said around the puff. “I can’t. Please.”

“Please what?”

“I c-can’t… talk about this.” He shook his head, munching on bites between gasping sobs.

“Well,” Crowley shifted his weight, putting his hand holding the fork to rest on his hip. “Wasn’t planning to, but I couldn’t very well just let you sit here and cry into your bloody soup, now could I?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, utterly miserable and apologetic.

“Now, stop that,” said Crowley, stabbing another profiterole, this one completely coated in chocolate, and shoving it in his own mouth. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Bless it, these _are_ good.”

He reached across the table for his wine glass, taking a big gulp of the red liquid.

“Fuck,” sighed Crowley. “Only sins you’ve ever committed, far as I know, is getting pineapple on your pizza and hanging out with the likes of me. So what? You like a little Earthly delight. Who cares?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, for God’s sake…”

“All right, all right. Listen,” he said, watching Aziraphale as he wiped the last of his tears away with the handkerchief. “If it’s alright with you, I might go back to the flat for a while. Check on the plants — that sort of thing. You’ll be okay if I leave you alone for a bit?”

Aziraphale gulped, hiccuping a little as his tears finally faded away. “O-oh. Um, yes. I… I think so.”

“Right,” said Crowley taking one last sip of wine. “I’ll come back in the morning? Maybe we can do brunch or something.”

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath, and finally looked up at him. Crowley met his eyes and offered a warm smile. For once, he wasn’t wearing those infernal sunglasses, and for once, Aziraphale rather wished he were.

“Right,” he said. “Fine.”

“Fine,” said Crowley. “Night then.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. He hesitated for a moment, then bent down, pressing dry lips to the corner of Aziraphale’s still trembling mouth; kissing him there, too. Then he set his half-full wine glass on the table and headed for the door.

Aziraphale sat there for a moment, stunned.

 _Well_ , he thought. _That’s new_.

* * *

1 Incorrectly attributed to the Serpent in the King James Version of Genesis, speaking to Eve (Genesis 3:4). What Crowley had actually said was, “What’s the worst that could happen, really? S’just a bit of fruit.” Those words had haunted him for some time after. In any case, Aziraphale had always found the Biblical attribution to be a bit more… poetic. [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


* * *

Monsieur Toulouse had started the whole thing, really.

The party was already in full swing by the time Aziraphale arrived. It was _à la mode_ , after all, to be fashionably late, and he had standards to keep. So, when he entered the gardens of Château de Versailles and saw Monsieur Fauline ducking into one of the outdoor storage buildings with Madame Bauvere, he assumed things must be going well. He just hoped there would be some food left.

He need not have worried. The monarch who would go on to become famous for saying, “Let them eat cake,” (but who, somewhat ironically, would never _actually_ say that, as it turned out) had made certain that plenty was provided for all in attendance on this day.

Aziraphale was chatting with Madame Tourée by the champagne fountain when the trouble began. Well, he supposed it was trouble, depending on who you asked. One of the young ladies in waiting whom Aziraphale didn’t recognize had become quite drunk, and had been in a steadily deteriorating state of throwing herself at Monsieur Toulouse for the last half hour. 

In an attempt to thwart her, Toulouse finally reached for a slice of apple tart and offered it to her. 

“Mademoiselle,” he said. “You look hungry. Perhaps try some of this?” (and, under his breath) “...and leave me well enough alone?” 

After all, as anyone who had been at court for more than three days would know, Monsieur Toulouse had been courting Aziraphale just as, if not even more hopelessly than, the young lady was courting Toulouse right now. 

“Ah, merci, Monsieur!” The girl shrugged her shoulders, showing off her prominently displayed cleavage with a little excited wiggle. 

It was a good move, thought Aziraphale. Effective. 

Not so effective as to catch Toulouse’s attention, however. The man was already handing the plate off, gazing dreamily in Aziraphale’s direction. The angel caught his eye, and looked pointedly away. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, turning his ear back to what Madame Tourée had been saying about the new pastry chef in the palace. “And we’re to thank him for these new desserts, I assume?”

“Oui,” she said. “The zest d’orange, the tarte aux pommes. His personal recipe is all the rage right now, and the latest thing at court. The secret is in the special compote. Monsieur Fell, you simply must try some.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” he said agreeably. 

He spared a glance for the buffet table, and was startled by what he saw there. The lady in waiting was on top of Monsieur Toulouse, sucking a bit of whipped cream from her finger. Toulouse, poor chap, was plastered to the table, gripping the tablecloth like his life depended on it. He was looking at Aziraphale now not with wistful adoration, but in desperate panic, a silent cry for help on his lips.

“You see, Monsieur Toulouse?” the girl said, waving her hand and plunging her finger into the tarte, bringing it away with a fresh glob of fruity compote and cream. 

“My finger is you, and this is what I want to do with your delicious crème…”

She leaned over the poor man, making a show of bringing the dessert to her open mouth.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers vaguely downwards, and the table gave way, sending the two would-be (well, one would-be) lovers tumbling to the ground with a mountain of food and a fountain full of champagne. Toulouse took his chance, skittering away, but the young woman popped back up, resilient and ready for her next victim. 

“Monsieur Paran!” She shouted, getting the attention of a young man down the table. “Look out!” and she threw a fistful of cake, hitting the man square in the face.

Before Aziraphale knew it, the crowd of party-goers gathered around the table was in a full scale food war. Cakes and creams and croquembouche were flying through the air like missiles. 

The young lady in waiting was cuddled up next to Monsieur Paran, feeding him bits of almond pastry from her palm, and now he was licking her hand, looking for any last crumbs that might be stuck there. Or, perhaps not. He seemed just as satisfied with the palm itself, from what Aziraphale could see. 

Madame Justine and Madame Halloway were scooping bits of chocolate pudding and crème du menthe from a bowl into each others’ mouths, then kissing passionately, apparently mixing the flavors together for mutual enjoyment. 

And finally, he noticed Monsieur Toulouse had returned to the fray once he realized Monsieur Landeau was there and holding a chocolate éclair aloft, looking for someone with a free mouth to put it in. Monsieur Toulouse was only too happy to oblige.

 _Ah well_ , thought Aziraphale. _Mortal love is fickle, I suppose_. The young man seemed to have moved on, no longer gazing hopelessly after the angel — at least, not for the rest of the afternoon. 

Aziraphale promptly looked down and realized an entire tarte au pommes had landed at his feet, still resting on its platter.

“Small blessings,” he said to himself, as no one else was listening. Even Madame Tourée had disappeared into the crowd, either to make herself scarce, or to join in the fun. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure which.

He crouched down, carefully picking up the dessert. He glanced around, still hoping to catch a glimpse of dark glasses and red hair. Seeing none, he sighed, and took his consolation prize with him.

* * *

He’d only gone to that wretched party in the hopes that Crowley might show up, but of course he hadn’t. Aziraphale had miracled himself straight back to London, too demoralized to spend another day alone in France. He’d sat in his little flat, alone, and ate the entire dessert. 

It _was_ delicious, sweet apples with an undercurrent of vanilla and nutmeg, and topped with that delicious whipped cream. The cinnamon and cardamom worked into the compote especially affected him, tapping into some distant memory of Crowley’s delightfully spicy scent.

With each subsequent bite, Aziraphale grew more and more depressed… desperate for just a moment of the demon's company and conversation. 

As he sat there on his couch, slowly devouring mouthfuls of tarte aux pommes, he noticed a bit of whipped cream stuck to his finger. Thinking back to the lewd suggestion the lady in waiting had made to the unfortunate Monsieur… Aziraphale could see the comparison. A finger had the same general shape of a male organ, after all, and the cream was a rather obvious stand in for… something slightly less edible.

Although, people _did_ eat it, didn’t they? At least, that was what Aziraphale had heard. It wasn't as if he'd know first hand. 

_I must be very bored indeed, if this is the topic of contemplation to which I'm going to commit my afternoon_ , he thought.

And he was quite bored. There weren’t any good stage plays on that day, and his sole hope for the week had been that he might bump into Crowley at Versailles, seeing as he’d been unable to track him down around London for several years at this point. Had he gone to sleep again? Aziraphale supposed it was possible. 

The last Great Plague of London had really left Crowley in a bad way… especially after Hell had presented him with a commendation for a job well done, assuming he’d been responsible for it. 

“And it just _had_ to happen in sssixxteen sssixxxty sixxxxx—” the demon had lamented to Aziraphale the last time they’d shared a drink in the local tavern together, hissing out all the sixes with a dejectedly forked tongue. “They figured I was going for some poetic meaning doing it that year! Didn’t have the heart to tell them it was just a coincidence. A very… rat infested… unfortunate coincidence.” 

He’d chugged back his ale in one go, looking just about as miserable as the angel had ever seen him.

Then later that same year, half the city had burned.

Sitting in his flat eating apple tart, Aziraphale could only assume the recent famine in Ireland may have been the last straw leading Crowley to another long nap. It was one way to avoid getting credit for all of it, at least. The seventeenth century hadn’t been easy on the demon, after all. Aziraphale couldn’t have blamed him if he needed a bit of a break from reality. He had rather selfishly hoped he’d show back up again soon, though. Things tended to get a bit boring without so much as a hereditary enemy to share a drink with.

He reached for another fistful of gooey tart, having long ago dispensed with any pretense of using silverware. He wondered absently about the other pleasures he’d observed that day, and the role food might play in them. 

_Seems like a great waste of perfectly good cake_ , Aziraphale thought. But then, what did _he_ know? He’d never actually bothered with sex. It seemed a very human activity. But then… so did eating, and he’d been enjoying that particular human vice for quite some time now.

He looked around at the empty room, considering the rest of the afternoon stretching long for him, and decided. Why not?

He undid his breeches, imagined a cock for himself, and touched it. It took a little patience, and some experimentation, but after only a few minutes, he was happily scooping apple tart into his mouth with one hand and stroking himself towards the first of many orgasms with the other. Forbidden fruit, indeed.

* * *

Now, in the present, Aziraphale looked down to see the bowl of profiteroles was quite empty. He could miracle it full again, but he didn’t much feel like it. He looked around the darkening bookshop, feeling utterly alone in a way he hadn’t in a long time. It was a strange feeling, knowing Crowley was off in the world somewhere, rather than here in his bookshop with him. 

He found he didn’t like it. Not at all.

Aziraphale cleaned up all the dinner things, washing and putting the dishes away in the kitchen. 

Then he did something he‘d not done in ages. He lay down on the couch and tried to sleep. He rolled over, hugging one of the throw pillows, willing himself into a dreamless rest, and counting on it to bring the morning back around perhaps a bit quicker than usual.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

The Bentley tore through the misty London morning like a rocket shooting toward the Moon, and almost as fast. Crowley liked to think that if he ever bothered to put enough imagination into it, he really could get the car up to escape velocity and fly right off the Earth’s surface. Thankfully, the time for pushing reality to its limit and scrambling desperately for last minute survival plans had passed, and Crowley hoped that was one theory he would never have to put to the test.

Earth was home, just as it had been for the last six thousand years — and Crowley had every plan to keep it that way, because at the moment, life was better than ever.

Currently, he was riding this rocket-fueled antique car back to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and if he was a bit more eager to get there than usual, it was only because he’d just spent his first twelve hour period outside the angel’s presence in as many months. He hadn’t really expected it to make him quite as antsy as it had, but here they were. He’d endured most of the night tossing and turning, unable to find sleep, worrying and fretting helplessly over one thing or the other.

Firstly, there was an undercurrent of anxiety that had never really gone away since Tadfield. Aziraphale, for his part, had seemed perfectly comfortable after returning from Hell. He’d arrived at their customary park bench as planned, cracked his neck, and offered Crowley a cheerful little smile that said, _‘By jove, we did it! We beat them at their own game!’_

Crowley had quickly offered Aziraphale his hand to make the switch back, unconvinced.

Thing was, you didn’t beat Heaven. You didn’t beat Hell. You fooled them for a while, kept them at bay, pulled the wool over their eyes for a bit until they bothered to look a little closer.

Their saving grace…

_-NGK-_

(He gagged at the slip up of language even inside his own head…)

_Ah well… Fuck it_ , he thought. _They’re just words, Crowley_. Their saving grace was that, so far, no one had bothered to look any closer. With any luck, no one would bother for a very long time… but you could never be sure, or too careful. Which was why the demon had quietly decided for himself that he would just stick by the angel’s side (in a very physical sense) as long as Aziraphale would tolerate it. So far, he hadn’t seemed to mind, had even reveled in it maybe. He at least hadn’t questioned it, and Crowley had felt no real need to provide an explanation. They were sticking together — safety in numbers, and for his part, the angel seemed content with the way things were.

Crowley wasn’t blind. He’d become aware, over time, that Aziraphale had really come to value his company. But up until that night on the bus, he had not dared to hope the angel could ever really feel the same way about him that Crowley had felt about Aziraphale since the words, “I gave it away,” had left his pretty little pink mouth.

That simple action, when Aziraphale had unceremoniously reached out and taken Crowley’s hand in his own, had made a lot of previously impossible things in Crowley’s mind seem suddenly… quite possible.

Even now, after everything, the concept was rather mind boggling to contemplate — Aziraphale enjoying having Crowley around, taking pleasure in his daily conversation, companionship, even the occasional affectionate physical contact. Aziraphale. _Loving_ him. And not just in the simple way that angels are bound to love everything. Aziraphale genuinely _loved_ him, Crowley. He’d said so in a million little ways. Afternoons in the bookshop, meals shared together at all the best restaurants around town, evenings in Crowley’s bed, Aziraphale nose deep in a book while Crowley curled up at his side, sleeping. That last one had really taken the demon by surprise at first, but after a moment’s hesitation, he’d happily led the way, flinging the blankets back and inviting the angel to come in, please, make himself at home.

But everyone had their limits, of course, and it seemed he’d found Aziraphale’s. And, for _someone’s sake_ … of all the limits to have, of all the reasons to need some time away, alone, this was one Crowley would never have guessed, never even have contemplated, in quite literally a million years.

The angel… performing a sexual act… all by himself — on the old, comfortable, worn out couch they shared almost every night after dinner.

It was truly unfathomable.

He wouldn’t have believed it possible if he’d not seen it with his own infernal eyes.

But of course it wasn’t that such an act was below an angel, in Crowley’s opinion, or that it was gross, or inappropriate, or any of all that such nonsense. What business would he have holding an opinion on what angels should or shouldn’t do, anyway? He was hardly in any position to judge, and he couldn’t fathom why he should.

Just because the concept had never been in any way appealing to him personally, didn’t mean anyone else was obligated to be of a similar mind. Anyway, Crowley had his own reasons for that.

As far as he was concerned, Aziraphale was the most wholesome, genuinely _good_ angel that had ever existed. By contrast, every other angel in Heaven was utter, corruptible garbage, and a bunch of blessed hypocrites to boot. Who knew what sorts of things they got up to when no one was watching? Those bastards were probably into the really kinky shit… but they’d be the first to throw stones at anyone else who dared.

Except for Gabriel. You knew damn well that if Gabriel ever fucked anyone, they weren’t enjoying themselves. If he fucked, that prat almost certainly did missionary, exclusively, and selfishly. Sex with Gabriel, if it happened, was surely a chore. Crowley pitied anyone who might be subject to it, on principle.

So no, Aziraphale could do as he liked, and Crowley couldn’t see why it should trouble or concern him at all. With this thought in mind, he pulled up at the corner by the bookshop and climbed out of the Bentley, contemplating the best way he might communicate this to the angel without upsetting him again. Suddenly, he was startled to see another person walking into the shop. Then another. And another. Crowley turned, looking around to see a small crowd of people approaching the steps and walking through the front entrance.

“What the…”

He pushed through the doors, stopping on the threshold of the storefront to take in the scene. There were at least fifteen people already inside, and more streaming in after him.

Aziraphale was twittering about the shop, doing his utmost to entertain and make chatter while preventing anyone from making an actual purchase.

Crowley came up behind the angel, who was having a very excitable conversation with an older gentleman about Walt Whitman.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale was saying. “The early poems are some of my personal favorites. They’re in storage though, I’m afraid — and very much not for sale.”

The man’s eyes rose above Aziraphale’s height to see Crowley performing his most imposing glower. He went a bit pale, letting out an expression of surprise. “O-oh! Goodness. Well, I suppose I’d better be off, then…” He began to shuffle away, casting hesitant glances back in Crowley’s direction.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well, I’m quite sure I don’t…”

He turned then, and sighed at the sight of Crowley practically climbing the walls to take up as much space as possible, looming over the bookshelves with wide, yellow eyes and sharpened fangs peeking through a toothy scowl.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Why is the shop open?” Crowley seethed. “D’you forget we had plans this morning, angel?”

Aziraphale had already turned to approach another customer, and shrugged. “Oh, just thought the place could use a little excitement. And it _is_ a bookshop, Crowley. Suppose we should operate business from time to time. Uh, we’ll just have to reschedule, I’m afraid."

Crowley frowned. “But you don’t have anything you actually want to sell!” He called after him, but Aziraphale was already gone.

_Hmm_ , Crowley wondered. _Could he still be so frazzled over last night?_

This felt like textbook avoidance behavior, which Crowley knew a thing or two about. Was the angel trying to distract him; get him to leave again? Crowley thought about it — everything that had happened the night before, from an angel's perspective. Aziraphale didn't particularly strike him as the type to be embarrassed just for having a pure, sexual need. But then, he'd never have expected the angel to _have_ sexual needs either, so clearly there were things he didn't know. And he had been thoroughly upset at dinner, poor thing.

He'd assumed long ago that he had Aziraphale's daily routine more or less dedicated to memory. He spent his mornings over tea, reading something light and amusing, little angelic peals of laughter floating through the shop. By lunch, he was usually busying himself with some research into current events, looking for blessing opportunities around the city from his computer. Then afternoons bled into evenings over drinks, maybe a walk, and by then Crowley was curling up on the couch to sleep or read or lose himself in a game on his mobile. Aziraphale often joined him with a cup of cocoa and a book, until he eventually wandered off to his bookshelves to do some more tidying or inventory, or Satan-knew-what all night while Crowley slept.

There was simply no time in the schedule for masturbation.

Thusly, Crowley had just assumed, the same as he had for the last six thousand years or so, that the angel... didn't. Obviously, he'd assumed wrong. And this information prompted its own new set of questions. Questions that wouldn't be getting asked or answered if Aziraphale was stuck here helping customers all day, avoiding the issue.

Crowley entertained the idea, momentarily, of shifting into snake form, slithering across the tops of the bookshelves and striking fear into the hearts of every mortal in sight until he drove them all shrieking from the store.

But, catching another glimpse of the old Whitman fan on his way to the door, Crowley suddenly had a much better idea.

Aziraphale was talking with a young Shakespeare professor when he was distracted to see someone actually standing at the cash register — as if they were waiting to make a purchase.

“Ah, please excuse me,” Aziraphale said to the young woman, approaching the register. “Yes?” He addressed the man standing there. “Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to buy these,” said the man, setting an ancient looking copy of _Oliver Twist_ and _Great Expectations_ down on the counter.

Aziraphale looked at them, quite forgetting to breathe.

“Oh, and that guy said you’d give us a deal on this one if we buy the whole lot.”

He pointed back toward the stacks, where the old man was tottering toward the register, a stack of small poetry volumes and one bright green leather bound text clutched between his gnarled hands.

Crowley was leaning against an end cap, beaming.

A matter of seconds later, a fiery angel was practically shoving customers through the door.

“Out! Out, I said! We’re quite closed! Terribly sorry! Goodbye, and do have a very...” he leaned against the door, forcing it closed and slamming the lock into place, “ _Nice_ … day!”

He huffed, watching the people dispersing onto the sidewalk, all looking rather confused. Well, at least they were gone.

“So,” Crowley sauntered into the lobby. “What’s for brunch?”

Aziraphale whirled on him.

“Just how many of my books did you miracle out here!? I mean it, Crowley, if _any_ of them have gone missing, or been damaged—”

Crowley sighed, digging his keys out of a pocket. “Oh, will you relax? They’re fine. Put every precious tome back in its rightful place already.”

Aziraphale dashed to the back room, then stuck his head out to glare at Crowley from beyond the curtain.

“I don’t see the Milton. Crowley, what have you done with my _Paradise Lost_? If it’s lost, I swear to—” He cut himself off abruptly, breathing a steadying sigh.

“Oh, no,” said Crowley teasingly. “Please _do_ finish that sentence.”

“Crowley!” The angel spat. “Where is it?”

Crowley sighed. “Oh, it’s just there,” he said, pointing to a high shelf just beyond the curtain. “You’re no fun.”

Aziraphale looked up, sputtering. “That is _not_ where it belongs! There’s a glass case and all. It’s climate-controlled.” The angel stood on his tip toes, trying to reach the book. “Do you have any idea—”

Crowley swept the curtain aside and easily grabbed the book from the top shelf, handing it over to Aziraphale, who was still fussing.

“Be careful! You can’t just go around handling this sort of— Do you have any idea how old this is?”

“ _Almost_ as old and stodgy as you, I’d imagine,” Crowley sighed, miracling the book right out of Aziraphale’s hands and back into its glass case with a snap of his fingers.

“Oh—” exclaimed the angel.

“Will you come on, already?” asked Crowley. “If you want a half-decent breakfast, we’d better get there before noon.”

* * *

Their go-to brunch place this month was a little bakery and cafe across from Regent’s Park. It offered mostly foods of the heavily carbohydrated variety: muffins, cakes, waffles, and the like, but there were also some more robust options — bacon and ham and eggs prepared in every possible way imaginable.

“I will never understand how you can possibly choose that,” Aziraphale pointed to the plate of sausages, potatoes, and scrambled eggs piled in front of Crowley, “over this.”

He indicated his own plate of waffles coated in candied pears and chocolate drizzle, some kind of crumbly little scone, and a couple of berry tarts.

Crowley raised an eyebrow over his glasses, jamming a sausage into his mouth. “To each their own, I guess. More saccharine sunshine to hold up your halo?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Oh, and what’s holding up yours, the little red horns?”

“Now, don’t be silly,” Crowley said. “You know perfectly well I haven’t got one.”

He ran one hand through his bright red hair, making it stick out in every direction. “Never quite suited my _look_ , anyway.”

Aziraphale munched on a mouthful of waffle, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Now, listen,” said Crowley, growing serious, his tone gentle. “I want to talk to you, angel.”

Aziraphale froze mid-chew, mouth still full of waffle. “Hmm?” He intoned, looking like he was ready to bolt.

“What’d you go and open the shop for, this morning?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale had managed to get his waffle down, and took a sip of tea. “What do you mean?” he asked innocently.

“Come on, Aziraphale. You can be mad I messed with your books all you like, but the reality is, there’s not a thing in that shop you’d want to part with these days, so why open at all? You haven’t done any real business in months — I think people were starting to assume you’d closed for good, anyway.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, picking at his scone.

“While we’re on the topic, I can’t see why you don’t,” Crowley said. “Nothing saying we’ve got to stay in London, now. Matter of fact, it might behoove us to go elsewhere, get a bit further off from headquarters anyway. Out from under their watchful eye.”

Aziraphale looked up. “Watchful eye? You don’t think they—”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, I don’t know. Never hurts to be too careful, I guess. I’m just saying.”

Aziraphale reached for his napkin, dabbing his lips. “ _What_ are you saying, Crowley?”

“A year ago, give or take,” Crowley pointed his finger across the table. “We said, no more lies. No more holding each other at arm's length. No need to keep anymore secrets.”

Aziraphale went white. “Oh…” he fretted, twisting the napkin in his hands.

Crowley sighed, sitting back in his chair. “No, no; I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

Aziraphale wadded his napkin up into a ball, laying it on the table.

“No, you’re quite right,” he said, clipped. He sat quietly for a moment, clasping his hands under the table to keep from trembling.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed.

He ignored Crowley, reaching quickly for the bill where it lay on the table.

“Come on,” Crowley reached out, laying a hand over Aziraphale’s where it had landed on the ticket book. “Aziraphale.”

They sat there, Aziraphale staring at a place on the floor, Crowley’s hand pinning his to the table. Crowley thought he noticed a twitch in the angel’s cheek, before he finally looked up and was met with furiously pursed lips and eyes the color of an impending thunderstorm.

“Let. Go. Crowley.” It was a tone of voice he’d not heard come out of Aziraphale since sometime in the second century. It spoke of holy fire and vengeful retribution.

Crowley pulled his hand away instinctively, leaning back in his chair.

Aziraphale clenched the ticket book in his fist and stood, clattering the chair aside on his way to the front counter.

For a moment, Crowley was too stunned to move.

Then he got up to go after him, hanging back a bit.

They came out of the café to find the morning mist and cloud had burned away, revealing a sunny afternoon in their wake.

“Ah,” Crowley said nervously, catching up to the angel. “Turning out to be a rather nice day, after all.”

Aziraphale said nothing, plodding determinedly up the street.

_At least he’s not telling you to fuck off_ , Crowley thought. After that explosive moment, he supposed he ought to count himself lucky.

“Angel,” he said finally. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Aziraphale said, looking straight ahead. “You’re quite right. I deceived you.”

Crowley sighed, slumping his shoulders to one side as he walked. “I’m not. You didn’t. I mean, technically... Look, I’m not upset with you. I don’t have any right to be. What you do…” Crowley glanced around at the passing clusters of humans in the street, leaning in close to Aziraphale discreetly. “What you do in private is your own business, angel. I don’t—”

“I intentionally sent you away,” Aziraphale cut in. “Under false pretenses.” He continued in that clipped, harried tone, pacing rapidly up the street with no destination in mind. “I’m a liar. I’m a liar who lies. I’ve been lying to you for so long, it’s quite obvious I don’t know how to stop. Perhaps I never will.” He was talking faster by the second, working himself up. “I’ll just keep lying and lying and lying to you until the end of time. Why would you want to be with someone who lies compulsively, all the time, unceasingly?”

“What?” Crowley said. “Angel—”

“For it is a shame even to speak of those things which are done by them in secret,” Aziraphale bit, on the verge of tears again.[2]

“What?” Crowley stared at him for a moment, lost. “Oh,” he grimaced, finally placing it. “Don’t start.” He looked disgusted for a moment. Then, suddenly feeling just petty enough to play along, he smirked at Aziraphale, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “For thou didst it secretly: but I will do this thing before all Israel, and before the sun.”[3]

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whirled on him, teeth bared. “If you don’t care, then why on _Earth_ do you insist on discussing it?”

Crowley could see now that he’d taken the entirely wrong approach. He had to find a way to reel this conversation back in and start over. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “Angel.”

“What?!” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley sighed. “It’s not that I don’t care.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just… Well, that’s just it, I suppose. I _do_ care. I care about you, I mean. I…” He deflated, shrugging again. “I just want to know that you’re alright.”

“I’m. Fine.” Aziraphale said through clenched teeth.

Crowley didn’t think he’d seen the angel _less_ fine since the day the universe had almost come to an end.

They stood there in the street, people passing on either side, neither of them really sure what to do next.

“Right,” said Crowley.

“Right.” Aziraphale smoothed his waistcoat down and adjusted his bowtie. “Well, then. I suppose we ought to…” He trailed off, and headed back up the street toward where they’d parked the Bentley.

Crowley stood there for a moment, looking across the street to the park’s entrance. It was a sunny day. What good would come of rushing home? Especially considering the mood Aziraphale was in. Crowley figured he couldn’t do any more damage than he already had, so why not?

“Oi! Angel!” he called after him.

Aziraphale turned, looking back up the sidewalk, annoyed. “Yes, what is it, now?”

“You really in such a hurry to get back to work?" Crowley asked. "Selling books that aren't for sale?"

Aziraphale sighed heavily, dithered for a moment, and finally meandered back up the street, stopping in front of Crowley. “No, I suppose not. Why?”

“Let’s go for a walk in the park. It’s a nice day.”

Aziraphale grimaced, considering. “Oh, I don’t… I don’t know, Crowley.”

“I’ll get you ice cream. Those great big waffle cones you like, with the chocolate drizzle.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “We’ve only just had brunch. Do you think I can so easily be bribed with ice cream?”

Crowley frowned, hands in his pockets, searching Aziraphale’s eyes for some glint of sarcasm. Seeing none, he opened his mouth, unsure what the appropriate response might be. “Uhhh…”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, annoyed by Crowley’s ability to play him like an old fiddle, per usual. “Fine. But you’re buying.” He turned toward the park, leading them across the street.

* * *

It was a perfect day, as it turned out. Many of the little bushes and flowerbeds had already begun to bloom. They got ice cream at the cart, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the angel’s much improved mood, happily slurping his waffle cone, as they walked through the rose garden.

All right, he’d averted disaster, just barely. It had turned out to be a pleasant day, and he found he was perfectly happy just enjoying the warm breeze and sunshine, not to mention the now glowing being walking next to him.

“Better, angel?” He couldn’t help it. He grinned, feeling vindicated in his successful temptation.

“Oh,” Aziraphale grunted. “You wily serpent.” He looked down at the grass. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. And the scripture was...”

“Uncalled for, and completely out of context,” Crowley smiled, chuckling good-naturedly. “S’all right, angel. My fault.”

Aziraphale sighed. “No, really. I… It’s true. Everything I said. I do lie to you, all the time. You always assume the best of me, but the reality is…”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“You don’t believe that I lie?” said Aziraphale, looking stricken.

“I don’t believe that I’m ever wrong to assume the best of you. Even _when_ you lie.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale looked as if he might cry again.

“Stop that,” Crowley said. “No crying over ice cream. S’not allowed. I don’t make the rules.”

Aziraphale went back to licking the butterscotch, falling silent again.

“Anyway,” Crowley took a bite of his pistachio sorbet,[4] “At the risk of sending you into another frenzy, I need to say something to you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, looking like he’d just given himself brainfreeze.

“So,” Crowley began innocuously enough. “Here’s the thing, angel,” Crowley spoke softly, pausing to look out over the duck pond as he talked, “You know I love you.”

Aziraphale considered this. “Oh… Oh, Crowley. I love you, too.”

Crowley smiled at him, and even through his glasses, Aziraphale could see his eyes shining.

“I’m not going anywhere, angel. You’re not gonna scare me off with a little…” He dropped his gaze, giving Aziraphale a cheeky once over. “...pre-dinner entertainment.”

Aziraphale turned aside, scoffing, “Oh, good Heavens.”

Crowley smirked, just happy to see Aziraphale tolerating the candid conversation. “Turns out,” he continued, “a lying liar who lies is exactly the sort of bastard I want to spend the rest of eternity with.”

Aziraphale looked up at him then, falling silent.

“Right,” Crowley said, leaning his elbows on the iron fencing between them and the pond. “So, anyway. Am I to assume that you like sex, and… You like me. But sex _with_ me… Not so much?”

Aziraphale appeared to have choked on his ice cream, coughing suddenly. “W-what?!”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged. “S’a reasonable question, I think. I mean humans usually—”

“We’re not humans, Crowley!”

“I know that,” Crowley stood up straight, looking at Aziraphale like he was being intentionally obtuse. Maybe he was, in a way. “I just—”

“You don’t want anything to do with sex!” Aziraphale said, realizing belatedly that perhaps he shouldn’t have shouted that bit quite so loudly.

“It’s a Monday afternoon, angel,” Crowley said, catching him glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. “No one here but us unemployed immortals.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, noting that the park was indeed quite empty. “Right.”

“Never cared much for it, no,” Crowley nodded. “But I mean,” he laughed easily. “It’s not as if you’re going around fantasizing about me, or whatnot. Just doing your thing, right? Natural enough inclination, I suppose.”

Aziraphale shoved the remainder of his ice cream directly into his face, cone and all.

“Well, anyway…. Crowley shrugged, taking another bite of his own frozen treat and mumbling around it to speak. “I’ll just, um… Give you a little space when you need it, yeah?”

“Hmm!” Aziraphale mumbled, his mouth quite full, and his soft palate beginning to ache with the sensation of being utterly frozen. “Mmmhm!” He gulped it down, his throat closing up with the shock of the sudden cold. “Jolly good.”

* * *

2 Ephesians 5:12. It was a sure sign the angel was in fine form, indeed, if he was ready to quote purely out of context scripture in an effort to make his points for him. But there it was. [return to text]

3 2 Samuel 12:12. He wouldn’t, of course. But Crowley thought it served well enough for a perfectly fine, equally nonsensical comeback. [return to text]

4 Crowley had invented the concept of biting into ice cream not long after it had been invented, and he still considered it one of his most deviant accomplishments to this day. [return to text]


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Nearly two weeks went by before the topic presented itself again.

It was late afternoon and Aziraphale was just sitting down at the computer, getting ready to do some research into local events, looking for anything he might bless or otherwise affect in a positive way, when he noticed storm clouds rolling in. The sky was growing dark outside, and already he could hear the patter of rain against the window.

“Oh,” he remarked, scrolling down the browser window displaying the week’s Facebook events for the Soho area. “There’s a festival going on this weekend in the park. That would be lovely.”

Aziraphale still didn’t quite understand this Facebook thing, but Crowley had informed him it was typically a good place to start looking for local event announcements.

“Isn’t that what newspaper classifieds are for?” Aziraphale had protested.

“Sure,” Crowley had answered. “If you’re looking for events exclusively catering to ninety-year-olds.”

If he were fully honest with himself, this ‘research’ was more a method of finding things to entertain themselves with, rather than any real effort into finding opportunities for work. But, Aziraphale assumed, there was no reason why he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone, as the somewhat gruesome saying went.

“Angel...” came a somewhat pitiful sounding voice from the other room. Aziraphale got up from the computer, coming round the divider to find Crowley face down on the couch.

“Crowley,” he said. “Did you call me?”

“Mmmhmmmm…”

“Ah,” he said. “Did you… need something?”

“S’raining.”

Aziraphale smirked, glancing out the window. It was really coming down now; the storm had rolled in quite suddenly.

“Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”

Crowley raised his head, looking petulant. “Don’t make me beg!”

Aziraphale chuckled, walking over to the couch. “All right, I suppose I can sit with you for a while.”

It was days like this one that had first led to more physical affections between them in the first place. In the early months of their cohabitation, Aziraphale had been shocked to learn Crowley turned into a needy noodle in the face of a good thunderstorm. Aziraphale loved it, but was ashamed to acknowledge that he’d been avoiding the activity recently, due to… potential complications. Still, he couldn’t very well refuse when Crowley was openly asking for attention.

He picked up a book he’d been reading from the table, and sat down next to Crowley on the couch. The demon immediately shifted position, crawling into Aziraphale’s lap. He let his head rest on the angel’s knees, pulling the soft knit blanket along with him and over his shoulders.

They settled into companionable silence for several minutes.

Then, seemingly apropos of nothing, Crowley said, “You haven’t asked me to bugger off, yet.”

Aziraphale nearly dropped his book in surprise. “W-what?”

“It’s been two weeks, Aziraphale. You usually go that long?”

“I— It’s hardly unheard of. Two weeks isn’t so much time, is it?”

“Guess not,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s thigh. His _thigh_. That was suddenly a very pertinent piece of information. “Still, tell me to leave whenever. I won’t be offended.”

“Crowley, really. I…”

The demon shifted under the blanket, rolling over onto his other side, so he was facing Aziraphale. His face was practically in his crotch, lying peacefully in the angel’s lap. Aziraphale straightened up, shifting away slightly, and Crowley’s eyes snapped open.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, mischief in his voice. “You all right?”

“Stop that,” Aziraphale said. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?” Crowley said innocently.

“Oh, you’re ridiculous.”

“Angel, come down here so I can snuggle you properly. Haven’t had a decent nap in ages — and it’s pouring outside.”

Aziraphale set his book aside and reached down to pull off his shoes. Crowley rearranged his limbs so Aziraphale could slide under the blanket, lying down next to him.

Crowley burrowed into Aziraphale’s chest, pulling the blanket up over them both.

“Ah, see?” he said. “Much better.”

“I hope I didn’t plan on getting anything done this afternoon,” said the angel, but there was no heat in it. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, hugging him close.

“But really,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could feel his warm breath through the fabric of his shirt, “I’m not putting you out, am I?”

“Putting me out?” Aziraphale had already forgotten what they’d been talking about.

“Tell me, did you actually even do anything about it that night, after I left? Or did you just sit around feeling sorry for yourself til sunrise?”

Aziraphale’s eyes popped open. “Crowley!”

“What,” Crowley whined. “I just worry about you, is all.”

“I—” Aziraphale huffed. “You needn’t worry. I’m fine.”

“Hmmm,” said Crowley. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Aziraphale frowned. “From whom?”

“ _Me_ ,” Crowley said simply.

He leaned in, nuzzling Aziraphale’s chest. He curled in on himself, coiling into the space between them, and became the little spoon. “Think I’ll go out for awhile tomorrow, anyway. No reason.”

Aziraphale huffed a breath into Crowley’s hair, but offered no argument. He curled around the demon, planting a kiss on the top of his head. They lay there for hours, listening to the rain.

* * *

This became something of a routine. Every few days, Crowley would think of some excuse to leave the bookshop, announce his departure, and then disappear for a couple of hours. Aziraphale didn’t complain, especially considering the demon usually returned with some snack or baked good in tow — presenting Aziraphale with cakes, candies, and the occasional pie.

The first time he finished with a craving for strawberry shortcake on his tongue, he was mildly alarmed. It was Crowley’s current favorite, and he’d already brought it home twice that week. When he returned with little chocolate wafers that night instead, Aziraphale had to resist the urge to send him back out after the shortcake.

Months passed in this manner. Spring turned to summer, and summer to early fall. The one year anniversary of the failed end of the world passed more-or-less without incident, although they did share a celebratory toast in Adam’s honor that day — and took a couple of extra glances over their shoulders, just to be sure. Rainy days came more often, and Aziraphale found a clingy snake man shooting hungry eyes at him from underneath a blanket more and more frequently. They cuddled, burrowed under blankets, and Crowley saw himself out at appropriate intervals.

They did not talk about it.

One dreary afternoon, Aziraphale was busying himself with tidying shelves. As his feather duster whispered over leather bound bindings, his eye fell on a little unassuming green volume.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, setting the feather duster aside. “How did you get down here?”

He thought back to that day, several months ago now, when Crowley had thought it quite a funny joke to scatter his antique collections all over the shop shelves, encouraging customers to find and attempt to purchase them. This one must never have made its way back to the glass case it normally lived in. Aziraphale sat down, settling his back against the bookshelf. He smoothed one hand over the soft leather cover of the little green book.

_Leaves of Grass_

It was the book the old man had tried to buy that day — of course Crowley could not have known the true value of the slim, innocuous looking volume — somewhere around forty thousand pounds at auction. Walt Whitman first editions were hard to come by, after all. But of course, the monetary value meant little to Aziraphale. He opened it now to his favorite section, enjoying the lyrical, vague language of the poetry for possibly the thousandth time.

_I believe in the flesh and the appetites,_  
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me  
is a miracle.

_Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or  
am touch'd from…”_

Quite a scandalous passage for 1855…

Aziraphale had ordered the book from overseas, back when it was new. It still made him shiver deliciously, the same now as it had back then.

He read it aloud to himself, quiet whispering words echoing off the bookshelves on either side.

“Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity. Flames and ether making a rush for my veins. Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them. My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself…”

Aziraphale’s breath came rougher as he read through the familiar, suggestive text. Well, it was hardly considered suggestive now, was it? But for Victorian times, it had practically been pornography. It still read that way to Aziraphale, the beauty of the language and the recklessness of the passionate need described therein. He could already feel the reaction of his body rising inside his trousers. The back of his neck tingled. He put one finger to his lips, letting his eyes scan down the page quickly, skimming over the text he already knew very nearly by heart.

“I am given up by traitors,” he read on. “I talk wildly, I have lost my wits. I and nobody else am the greatest traitor.”

_Fuck._

What had he been thinking, reading this here? He closed the book carefully, setting it aside. He turned his head, listening for any sound. He suddenly realized he couldn’t remember if Crowley was home, or if he’d gone out for the afternoon. The pressing erection against his clothing decided for him that he really couldn’t be bothered to care.

He sat down, leaning back against the bookshelf, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He let it fall open, and worked the fastening of his trousers enough to free his already hardening cock, sighing quietly at the relief of having it free and exposed to the cool air.

He closed his eyes, falling into a practiced rhythm, curling his fingers around himself and moving quickly toward the threshold of a much-needed release. Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t done this in several days. It had been very rainy lately, and Crowley hadn’t been going out daily as had become his usual habit — they’d stayed in, curled up on the couch, and Aziraphale had found himself whimpering internally the closer they got — wanting more and not daring to show it.

A soft little moan escaped his open mouth, and he instinctively bit down on his lower lip.

_Shut up, you idiot. You’ve got to be quiet, and get this done quickly. Crowley might hear you._

And oh, God help him, that thought was… a little more than exciting. Terrifying, yes, but also… something darker. It made his cock twitch, the thought that Crowley might walk in at any moment and find him like this. Like before.

Only, unlike before, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine the demon would be much offended by it. Months of gentle reassurances and quiet, well-timed exits had proven that while Crowely wasn’t interested in sticking around to observe the angel’s private little engagements, he wasn’t bothered by the knowledge that they happened.

But that would surely change, Aziraphale’s conscience pricked at the back of his mind, if he knew what — who — you were thinking about right now. All the obscene scenarios you’ve imagined.

Crowley, braced over him, pinning the angel between towering arms and legs. Crowley, hair grown into long, flowing waves, framing both their faces in it as they kissed. Crowley, curled up as he often was when they lay on the couch, only naked, with Aziraphale’s hands between his legs, making him writhe and hiss softly in pleasure.

He was nearly done — he could feel the orgasm coming, and he bucked his hips, biting his lip hard enough almost to bring blood in an effort to stay quiet.

“Hmm,” he moaned, simply incapable of remaining totally silent. “Mmm, Crowley…” it slipped out involuntarily, a whisper on his wet, pink lips.

And there it was. Quiet, but unmistakable. A shocked gasp from across the room.

Aziraphale went rigid. He sat up, suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings.

“Is someone there?” he said, already knowing the answer.

His ears were met with a resigned sigh and the sound of the curtain to the back room being pushed aside, followed closely by the familiar stamp of Crowley’s boots.

Aziraphale pulled his knees to his chest, covering himself, heartbeat racing.

Crowley appeared in the aisle between bookshelves, crossed his arms, and leaned against the endcap, an expression of mild irritation on his face.

“Getting a bit reckless, aren’t we, angel?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, feeling his face go beet red. “S-sorry. I rather thought you’d gone out.”

Crowley shook his head, looking more than a bit amused. Well, that was a good sign, at least.

“No; just fell asleep on the sofa again. It’s hell out there, ya know.” He gestured vaguely toward a window. “Beginning to think this rain won’t ever end.”

Aziraphale was sitting awkwardly with his knees pulled in tight, heavily aware of his erection, only hidden by the bend of his knees and rumpled trousers pressed hard against his body.

“Yes, well…” He said, reflecting on the appropriateness of discussing the weather in this state. It somehow seemed more than a bit improper so he simply trailed off, leaving it unsaid.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Anyway. Was just… um…” He caught Aziraphale’s eye, looking quickly away. “Thought I’d maybe go out and uh…”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, looking pointedly at the wall of books in front of him. “But… You had to pass this way. And then you…”

“Sounded like you were reading something.” Crowley’s eyes fell on the green book where it lay on the floor.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, as if he could wish this all away. How had he let this happen again?

“Oh,” said Crowley, rather innocently. He walked over, bending to pick up the book, and opened it with a snap. “This was that one I almost had sold for you, wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale sputtered. “That book is priceless! You’ll do well to—”

“Right,” said Crowley. “That why you keep it around for a little afternoon delight?”

Aziraphale’s face turned hot.

Crowley’s eyebrows rose, and he turned to wander into the next aisle, disappearing behind a shelf. “If that’s how you care for all your priceless antiques…”

He slithered through the stacks, slowly flipping through the pages. “Let’s see… what’s it take to get an angel hot and bothered?”

“C-Crowley!”

“Ah-heh-hem,” Crowley cleared his throat dramatically. “You villain touch!” He read in his well-practiced baritone. “What are you doing? My breath is tight in its throat. Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me. Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!” He paused, turning a page. “Fucking hell, angel. This is saucy stuff… for the nineteenth century.”

“S-stop it, Crowley.” Aziraphale managed to say through gritted teeth. “You’re not being funny, right now.”

“No,” came a soft whisper, muffled through the wall of books. “Always knew you had a hard-on for the written word, but I don’t think I ever realized just how literal that was.”

“Crowley, I’m being serious!” Aziraphale whined.

Oh, why didn’t he just go away and let him alone? It wasn’t like Crowley to be so cruel, to tease him like this, though Aziraphale figured he must deserve it.

A flash of red hair and yellow eyes appeared in the gap marking the end of the 700 section (Arts and Recreation) and the beginning of the 800's (Literature).[5]

“Angel, for Satan’s sake, will you just let this happen already? You obviously want it. Otherwise, what are you going around being so careless for? You are many things, but you’ve never been stupid.”

“W-what?” Aziraphale didn’t think it possible to clench his knees any closer to his chest, but he did so, painfully aware of Crowley’s gaze on him.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley shook his head. “You wanted me to catch you at this. Now, and back then — all those months ago.”

“I—” Aziraphale squirmed. “I absolutely did not!”

“Yes, you did,” Crowley turned away to lean against the bookshelf, mercifully putting his back to the angel. “Subconsciously, anyway, if nothing else.” There was a breath of a pause, and then his tone shifted from playfully accusatory to soft, tender. “What do you think about?”

“T-think about?” Aziraphale hugged his knees, trembling.

“Don’t tell me Whitman’s your go-to. Man was a real prick, from what I've heard. Genius maybe, but a prick all the same.”

Aziraphale sighed, relaxing a bit in the wake of Crowley’s casual attitude.

“I haven’t read that book in years. So, no. It’s not exactly my... go-to.”

“So, what?” Crowley pressed, the only other sound that of yet another turning page. “What puts you in the mood? It’s not just random, is it? Can’t help but notice, you don’t always seem that in control of it.”

Aziraphale’s face was throbbing with heat, thinking about the last time — the week prior.

Crowley had been reading the new Gillian Flynn novel. It was another rainy day, and Crowley hadn’t yet bothered to get out of his pajamas, sipping coffee and slouching comfortably on the couch. He was wearing a long, oversized tank top, and one of the straps had slipped down over his shoulder, exposing the sinewy tendons of his neck, collarbone, and the naked curve of his throat.

He’d looked up from his book, caught Aziraphale’s widening eyes, and announced, “Think I’ll go out, angel. You want some breakfast?”

And _ohhh_ , Aziraphale most certainly had.

He’d enjoyed the first course right there on the couch before Crowley had returned, images of tightly straining ligaments in his mind, imagining what it might feel like to dip his tongue into the hollows of Crowley’s clavicles, lapping the salty sweat there.

Later, they’d eaten _croque madame_ together, and Aziraphale had found it slightly easier to restrain his thoughts, Crowley’s body mercifully covered in a sweater and jacket, his legs encased in tight black jeans. Aziraphale had sipped his tea, trying not to linger on the demon’s still naked throat.

“Angel?”

He flinched, looking up to realize Crowley had turned back to the little space in the stacks, where he was now watching him thoughtfully. “You all right?”

A shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine that had nothing to do with the chill of the room. “That is a... very… personal question,” he gulped. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, unapologetic. "S'pose it is."

There was a soft sound of leather sliding against wood then, and Aziraphale’s eyes darted to the space on the shelf where Crowley was carefully placing the closed book. His hands rose, reaching up to remove his glasses.

His eyes blazed yellow, and earnest, and Aziraphale took in a deep breath, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure under that piercing gaze.

“I heard you, angel,” he whispered. “You said my name.”

The bottom dropped away from Aziraphale’s stomach, leaving him feeling sick. He thought dimly that if he could crawl into the lowest pit on Earth at this very moment, it wouldn’t be deep enough to hide his shame.

Crowley quickly spoke again. “It’s all right. I just can’t understand why you didn’t say so in the first place.”

“I—” Aziraphale looked at the floor rather than continue to meet Crowley’s eyes. “You could never want that. You've made it perfectly clear. What would be the point of…" He broke off, already on the verge of tears.

This was it. He'd ruined everything, all because he didn't know when to quit, apparently had some subconscious need to flirt with disaster. And disaster had finally caught up with him. Crowley was never going to look at him the same way again — like a trusted friend. Everything they'd ever been to each other was tainted now. Crowley would surely look back on all those times they'd curled up together, kissed, shared a bed — and see it in a new light; see it for what it really was: Aziraphale taking whatever he could get, instead of what he actually wanted.

“I should have known you’d never be so dodgy and awkward if it was just about sex,” Crowley said. “S’not like you. You’re a hedonist all the way through, angel, and I could never see why you’d get so hung up over it."

Aziraphale was trembling, and he could swear his cock had grown even harder in response to this sickeningly humiliating conversation.

“Which," Crowley noted, "As you'll recall… is why I very specifically asked."

"You… what?" Aziraphale croaked, finally finding his voice again.

"That day in the park. You shoved an ice cream cone in your face and ran off. Should have seen that non-answer for what it was, I guess. But," he shrugged. "Thing is, I sort of didn't quite believe it was possible anyway, so I let it go." He looked at Aziraphale, smiling softly. "S'pose I know better now."

That gentle smile was the last straw, and Aziraphale lost it. He doubled over, crying into his hands. “I’m sorry, Crowley,” he sobbed. “I’m so so sorry. I’m the worst kind of liar — and I’ve been using you all this time. Taking advantage of your affection to get… to… to…”

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, walking quickly away from the gap in the bookshelf, his footsteps circling rapidly until they came to a stop right in front of Aziraphale. He knelt down, and Aziraphale flinched when he felt long, nimble fingers reach out to slowly rest on his bent knees.

“If that’s what you wanted from me, you might have just said.” Crowley’s tone was urgently sincere. “Months… a year ago. But Hell, when we started getting all cuddly and the like, and then nothing else happened… I figured that must be all you wanted.”

Aziraphale looked up at him then, his face wet with tears.

“C-Crowley,” he said. “You need to go away now. Please.”

“Why?” Crowley frowned. “What are you afraid of, angel? You clearly like this. You clearly like… thinking about me while you do it.”

Aziraphale rather thought he might discorporate on the spot.

“I never—”

“Liar,” Crowley cooed in that dark, sultry voice. “Lying liar who lies.”

Aziraphale buried his face in his knees again, wrapping his arms around his calves as a truly pathetic, needy noise escaped from the back of his throat.

Crowley’s hands were still resting on Aziraphale’s legs, and he was rubbing the pad of one thumb soothingly over a knee, bending to try to catch Aziraphale’s eye even as he folded in on himself. “Would you like it if I stayed with you, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale coughed a scornful laugh. “Of course, I would,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

Aziraphale’s head shot up, his brow furrowed, incredulous. “You’ve said as much! Plenty of times.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley shrugged. “That’s different.”

“Different? You hate sex. Even the idea of it. How many times have you said this? What’s different now, all of a sudden?”

Crowley took a deep breath, blowing it out in a great puff of his cheeks. He looked briefly like a chipmunk, rather than a snake, and this might have been funny only if Aziraphale, at that specific moment, were not actively dying inside.

“You.”

When Aziraphale didn’t say anything, just sat there staring at Crowley blankly, he blinked, and tried again. “It’s you, angel. _You_ want me, and I’ve never… not in all of time… ever had any inclination to refuse you something you want.”

Aziraphale stopped breathing for a moment, just staring at Crowley, speechless. “Well,” he said, finally gathering his wits. “That’s a very nice… sentiment... dear.”

“It’s not,” Crowley interrupted. “I mean it.”

“I— I know, Crowley,” he put his hands up, deflecting Crowley’s protests. “I don’t mean to say that you aren’t genuine. It’s just…”

“Just what?” Crowley said, getting annoyed. “Why’s this got to be so blessedly complicated?” He sighed, shaking his head. “Look. I can sit right here. Read to you, if you like. Talk to you. Or…” He smirked, “I could just watch.”

Aziraphale looked at him, wide-eyed. His cock twitched in eagerness, apparently strongly in favor of this idea.

“I won’t even touch you, if you don’t want me to,” Crowley raised his hands, as if to prove it. He continued, sensing that he was beginning to win this argument. “If it’s… weird… I’ll leave, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale looked away. “I don’t know.”

“Go on, Aziraphale,” Crowley said in that dark voice again. “I’m a big boy. You’re not gonna scare me. Please, go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

And that was all the permission he needed, apparently. Aziraphale trembled a little, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest, but at last — and all while keeping solid eye contact with an ever unblinking Crowley — he slowly lowered his knees, exposing himself.

His poor cock hadn’t so much as softened throughout the duration of their conversation, and he had a feeling this would be far from his greatest performance of stamina.

He said as much, huffing a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, in any case, this won’t take long, I don’t think.”

Crowley snickered, shifting closer and resting his hands back on Aziraphale’s knees. “All right, angel?” He said, his gaze still locked on Aziraphale’s face.

He looked straight across at Crowley, nodding. “You?”

“Never been better,” Crowley grinned. “Go on, then. Eat your cake and have it, too.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh at the mixed up turn of phrase. “But I haven’t any cake.”

Crowley’s voice was still dark and suggestive. “I’ll bring you some after, then.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, reaching down to take his cock in hand. “You really are too good to me, my dear.”

He whimpered, biting back a cry of pleasure as he dropped his gaze to stare at the floor.

“You don’t have to be quiet, angel,” Crowley whispered, his hot breath tickling Aziraphale’s ear. “Relax. Does it feel nice?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale closed his eyes, feeling every muscle in his body suddenly go tense. “Y-Yes!”

“Good,” Crowley cooed. “I’m glad. I’ve always liked watching you enjoy things — though usually it’s food.”

“A-ah! Crowley!” Aziraphale put his free hand to his face, trying and failing miserably to hide behind it.

Firm, gentle hands came down to clasp Aziraphale by the shoulders, bracing him there while the orgasm crested, threatening to send him over the edge at any moment.

“There you are,” Crowley soothed, leaning in to tickle the angel’s ear again. Aziraphale peeked between rigid fingers. Crowley was watching him intently with wide open pupils, irises dancing with delighted Hellfire. He certainly didn’t look put off by any of the proceedings — to the contrary, he was alight with enthusiasm.

Crowley smiled, his forked tongue darting out between sharpened teeth. “Don’t hide, angel. Let’s sssee that pretty facccce.”

“Oh, God!”

Crowley leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “No, love. No one here but us sssinners.”

“Good God Almighty!” Aziraphale came spectacularly, spurts of hot come shooting against his belly, and he sank into the bookshelf, quite out of breath.

“Shhh,” soothed Crowley, nuzzling the angel’s still buttoned up, bow tie-clad neck. “S’all right.”

“Oh. Oh, Heavens,” Aziraphale sighed, satisfied.

“We’re gonna have to come up with some new exclamations for you, angel. Dunno if I can handle all that heavenly talk. Now then,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “There was some talk of cake, earlier, if I recall.”

Aziraphale sat up, miracling away the mess on his belly and fastening up his trousers. “Oh…” He said, limbs heavy in the afterglow of pleasure. “Right. Cake does sound rather good right now.”

“Mhmm? And what would you like?”

“Well, actually,” Aziraphale said. “That strawberry shortcake you brought home just the other week was… delicious.”

Crowley grinned, pressing another soft kiss to Aziraphale’s warm lips. “Back in ten minutes, tops.”

* * *

5 Aziraphale held fast, daring anyone to pry the Dewey Decimal System from his cold, dead hands if they liked. It had been a stroke of genius when it was introduced in the late 1800’s, and in his most ardent opinion, it still was. And to think, the humans had come up with it all by themselves! [return to text]


	5. Chapter 5

  
  
art by [pandarson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarson/pseuds/pandarson)  


* * *

Aziraphale heard the Bentley’s tires squeal as Crowley peeled back into his usual parking spot, plowing one wheel into the curb. The car door slammed, and within seconds the familiar sound of Crowley hurtling through the front door of the shop met his ears. Aziraphale was waiting on the couch in the back room, where he had already stacked every pillow and throw blanket in his possession, turning the old, lumpy sofa into a sort of nest. It wasn’t beautiful, and it certainly could stand to be a bit more cozy, but it was the best they had at the moment. 

_No it isn’t, you idiot,_ he thought, mildly aware of Crowley’s footsteps approaching the backroom at a slightly faster than usual pace. _It’s not as if there’s anyone keeping track of your miracle quota now, is there?_

Before he could second guess the idea, Aziraphale raised one hand, snapping his fingers purposefully downwards. 

Crowley burst into the room, clutching a huge cardboard box in his arms. 

“My goodness,” Aziraphale exclaimed, noting the box. “What’s all that?”

Crowley froze, and even through the dark glasses Aziraphale could see that his eyes had gone quite wide. “I might ask you the same, angel.”

Aziraphale glanced around, taking in the freshly miracled furniture. He had to admit, Crowley was right. Perhaps he had gone a touch overboard. The sofa had transformed from the old, rumpled thing it had been, into a sumptuous Baroque design, complete with red velvet, dark cherry wood clawed feet, with curling swirls worked into the armrests on each end. It was plush, overstuffed, and twice as wide as its predecessor; more of a bed with a back attached than a sofa really, and strewn across the whole thing were soft furs and knit blankets, throw pillows and poufs. There were two matching lounge chairs on either side of the coffee table, and on the table itself, a collection of white wax candles, already lit and diffusing a sweet vanilla aroma throughout the room.

“Oh,” he said. “Oops.”

He looked at Crowley apologetically. “I may have gotten a bit carried away.”

Crowley scoffed, shaking his head in amusement. “Well, that makes two of us, angel. You’ve got plenty of dessert options.”

He went over to the coffee table, setting down the massive box, and began taking out little containers of cake, pastry, fruit tarts, éclairs, pudding, cheesecake, some sort of mixed berry trifle, and finally, the requested strawberry shortcake.

Aziraphale blinked at the massive pile of treats and confections that now lay before his eyes. 

“What did you do,” he asked, “run in and ask for one of everything, quick as you like?”

Crowley was stashing the now empty cardboard box in a corner of the room, his back to Aziraphale. He turned, flinging his shoulder upwards in a lazy shrug. “Not… everything…” He muttered. “I know you’re not fond of the tiramisu… so I—”

Aziraphale pointed to one of the little white boxes. “But you’ve got that. It’s right there.”

“Uh,” said Crowley. “Yeah. That’s for me.”

“I do hope you didn’t terrorize the poor baker out of his wits. I’d like to be able to show our faces there again, sometime.”

“He was well-compensated,” Crowley frowned. “Don’t think he’ll complain.”

Aziraphale returned his attention to the table, now covered in little paper and cellowrap boxes full of sweets. 

“Well, all right,” he said, licking his lips absent-mindedly. It did all look delicious — though he doubted even his insatiable appetite would allow for it all. “Good Lord, Crowley. There’s so much. I do hope you planned on helping with this.”

Crowley slithered over, shoving his hands into too small pockets. “Only if you ask nicely.”

Aziraphale turned to look up at him, noting the sultry expression apparent in his eyes even through those damned glasses. _Oh._ Aziraphale had the sudden and distinct impression that Crowley wasn’t talking about the food.

Crowley glanced away, noncommittal. “So,” he said, feigning a casual carelessness. “S’pose you can dig in whenever you’re ready. What’s first?” 

He pointed toward some elaborately decorated pink and cream dessert that looked interesting. Crowley walked over, grabbed it, and plopped onto the absurdly lavish sofa. “Angel. Room for a whole orgy on this couch. You sure you don’t wanna invite some friends?” 

He spread his arms to indicate the ridiculous amount of space available on the now supersized sofa. 

Aziraphale nearly choked on nothing, and turned to glare at Crowley. “I absolutely do not. This couch is only large enough for the two of us, I assure you.”

“Well,” Crowley opened the little take away container housing their first selection, and miracled a fork into his hand, “You must plan on spreading out, then. Fine by me.”

The demon smirked, carving off a forkful of the dessert and holding it up for Aziraphale to see. 

“Want this, angel? You’re gonna have to come _all_ the way over here and get it.”

Aziraphale scooted closer, tucking his sock-clad feet under his body, waiting patiently while Crowley read some text on the side of the carton.

“Macaron framboise avec… oh, dark chocolate?” Crowley said, squinting to read the label. He turned towards Aziraphale, offering the little bit of dessert with a playful twirl of the fork. 

_Oh_. Aziraphale had somehow not anticipated the idea of Crowley actively feeding him. His heart thumped in his chest as he leaned forward to accept the sweet, gooey confection into his mouth. He closed his lips around the fork and let Crowley pull it away, leaving the dessert behind.

“Mmmm,” he groaned, closing his eyes.

“Well?” said Crowley, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Aziraphale finished chewing, raising one hand to politely cover his lips. “Oh, it’s divine.” 

“Hope not,” Crowley drawled. “I’d better handle with care, if that’s the case.” He snapped his fingers, his other hand suddenly grasping a flute of a deliciously effervescent champagne. 

“Thirsty?” He asked Aziraphale, offering the glass towards the angel’s mouth. His long, delicate fingers were right there, nearly touching Aziraphale’s lips, bending just so as he tilted the drink toward Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale gulped champagne, feeling his cheeks flush pink. Once he’d downed half the glass, Crowley handed it over, snapping his fingers with another flourish to produce his own. He held it up in a toast. “Cheers, angel.”

Aziraphale clinked their glasses together, perfectly content. “Cheers. Won’t you have some dessert, dear?

“Oh, you know me. I’d much rather watch you eat than partake myself,” Crowley said, and there was definitely an unmistakable arching of eyebrows over his glasses as he took a sip of the crisp sparkling liquid.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, feeling a bit braver now, “You never know. You might like it.”

“S’pose I might,” Crowley shrugged. “Only one way to find out, I guess.”

 _Ah, well then_. Aziraphale hadn’t counted on that being such an easy sell. He stared at Crowley, blinking, and took a big gulp of champagne. 

Crowley threw his head back, laughing. “Have some more cake, angel.”

* * *

By the time they’d gotten through most of the little boxes, Crowley was on his third bottle of wine (they’d switched over to the heavier stuff once they’d gotten to the devil’s food cake) and Aziraphale had somehow wound up with a glass of very fine riesling in one hand and a port in the other — one of each to go with a variety of flavors, while the demon continued offering forkfuls of sweetness to Aziraphale’s eager mouth.

“Oh dear, I couldn’t possibly eat any more, Crowley.” Aziraphale chuckled good-naturedly, feeling a little tipsy from the wine. “You shouldn’t have brought so much.”

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley said. “There’s always room for one more. Here,” he said, lifting one of the last remaining boxes. 

“No,” Aziraphale chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I couldn’t possibly.”

Crowley flopped back onto the couch, laughing. 

“Try some, angel,” he said, popping open the lid and miracling what must have been his third fork. He kept losing them in the couch cushions. “Just a bite.”

Aziraphale froze with a wine glass halfway to his lips. "What did you say?”

“Oh,” Crowley was reading the label on the box, breaking off a piece onto the fork, and marveling at the glossy finish, breathing in the spicy sweet smell of the dessert inside. Aziraphale was distracted, but flinched to attention when Crowley raised the fork. 

“It’s a naughty little apple tart,” Crowley laughed. “Isn’t that appropriate?”

Aziraphale’s face went white, and he sat frozen in place. 

“Angel?” Crowley’s glasses were slipping from where they were precariously perched at the tip of his nose. He tugged them off now, laying them aside. 

“Oh,” Crowley said, staring wide-eyed at Aziraphale’s suddenly tented pants. “Angel…” He looked back up, grinning. “You hungry again, already?”

“Fuck!” Aziraphale scrambled to get up from the couch, flinching like he’d been pinched. Crowley dropped the fork in his hand and reached after Aziraphale’s arm instead. In his eagerness to escape, Aziraphale dropped both glasses of wine and dislodged several red velvet throw pillows onto the floor. 

“‘Ziraphale,” said Crowley, half rising to follow him from the sofa. “S’alright.” 

“No, no,” Aziraphale quivered, looking anywhere but Crowley’s face. “It’s not. I’m sorry. I need to—”

“It’s okay, I was just teasing you.” He stood to his full height, letting go of Aziraphale’s arm to find his own balance. Aziraphale stopped at the end of the couch, apparently regathering his wits. 

“Oh, if ever there were a clearer sign,” Aziraphale said miserably, wringing his hands. 

“Sign?” said Crowley. “What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale continued twisting his hands, glancing upwards. “Or maybe it's a sign that I should... I... Oh, I'm being stupid.”

“Come back over here and sit down, won’t you?” Crowley said, resettling on the couch, his eyes naked and full of concern.

Aziraphale sighed, and did, leaning into the cushions next to Crowley. He took a deep breath. “I went to a party at Versailles once.”

“Many times, as I recall,” Crowley said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“There was one particular occasion,” Aziraphale said, picking up a throw pillow and worrying at its fringe. “Took a whole one of those home with me,” he said, indicating the tarte aux pommes with a nod of his head.”

Crowley fell silent, waiting to see where this was going. 

“It was spicy. And sweet. Clove, nutmeg, cinnamon and vanilla.” Aziraphale had grown quiet, trance-like, gazing into the middle-distance as he spoke. “Coriander. Undercurrent of turmeric. Black pepper." He licked his lips, as if he could taste it there now. "Something like a freshly blown out candle, or a slowly dying wood stove crackling its final embers away on a cold winter’s night. Heat lightning on a darkening sky.”

Crowley’s eyes circled wildly, trying to make sense of what Aziraphale was saying. “You got all that from an apple tart?”

Aziraphale turned to him suddenly, his face contorted as if in pain. His words tumbled out like wine spilling from an overturned bottle. “No, Crowley. That’s what _you_ smell like. I was missing you so badly that day — you hadn’t been around, and I was hoping all those impressionable courtesans in one place might be enough to tempt you out, but you didn’t show up and I… I went back to London, ate a whole apple tart by myself because it reminded me of you, and… 

“And what?” Crowley whispered, barely capable of speech in the face of such passion flowing freely from Azraphale’s lips. 

“And I touched myself, for the first time, and I wept. Because I wanted it to be you touching me.”

Crowley gaped at him. "Oh, angel..."

Aziraphale let Crowley pull him into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of warmth and firelight that clung to the demon’s skin. 

“Shhh,” he soothed. “Angel. I’ll touch you now, angel,” Crowley’s voice against Aziraphale’s ear made him shiver. “If you want me to.”

“I—” Aziraphale gasped, nearly forgetting to breathe in the wake of Crowley’s impossible words. “Crowley, you don’t have to—”

“Want to. Touch you, make you feel good, angel.” Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, breathing into his hair. “You don’t know how hard it was to watch you in there, leaned up against that bookshelf, and not reach out for you. Took every ounce of self-control in me not to bat your hand away and let you have mine instead.”

“You?” Aziraphale choked, chuckling softly. “Self-control?”

Crowley hissed a laugh, pulling away to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. His usually slit sliced pupils were blown wide and dark, hungry. “Oh, yes, angel. Don’t you know? We demons can be _very_ patient. We’ve been known to toil away at one stubborn soul for ages, just waiting for the right moment to strike. Temptation can be a very… very long game.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, his lips quirking into a smile. “Is that what you’ve been doing then? Playing the long game?” 

Crowley’s fingers coiled deep, clutching the curls on Azirapahle’s head. He tugged lightly backwards, just enough to tip the angel’s head, exposing his throat. “Wish it hadn’t taken quite so long, angel. But we’re here now. Can’t find it in me to have regrets, really.” 

Aziraphale breathed in a ragged breath, letting it out in a trembling exclamation, “O-ohh…”

He was unquestionably hard again, and realized suddenly that as they’d grown closer together, Crowley had wrapped his legs around Aziraphale’s torso, not unlike a constricting snake. Aziraphale’s erection would be unmistakable, pressing against Crowley’s thigh. 

“Now then,” Crowley was saying in a soft, almost hypnotic voice, “Where were we?” He appeared thoughtful for a moment, then snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Ah yes. Wouldn’t you like just… one bite of this delicious little temptation?”

Aziraphale was openly panting now, willing everything in him not to grind against Crowley’s leg, his erection swelling almost painfully inside his trousers. He looked up to see the demon had miracled a bit of the apple compote and whipped cream directly onto his outstretched finger, and was now lowering it, offering it to Aziraphale’s lips. 

Aziraphale let out a whimper, leaning in to take the dessert into his eager mouth. 

Crowley teased him, pulling his finger back away and over the angel’s trembling, outstretched tongue. Clutching Aziraphale’s head where he held it fast with the other hand, he smeared the cream across Aziraphale’s bottom lip, chuckling at the sight of the angel’s sugar-covered face. 

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbled, licking his lips, only making a bigger mess.

Crowley laughed, smiling. “Oh, all right,” he relented, letting Aziraphale wrap hungry lips around his sugar-covered finger, sucking hard and gulping down the rest of the sweet cream. 

When the familiar flavor hit his taste buds, Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. His thighs trembled, and he flexed his hips upwards just enough to press against Crowley’s leg, humming with pleasure against the demon’s finger in his mouth. 

“Mmm— Oh,” said Aziraphale, averting his eyes and coming back to himself. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Don’t be sorry, love,” Crowley chided, pulling away only to press two fingers into Aziraphale’s mouth this time, smooth soft fingertips gliding over wet tongue. “It’s alright. I want this. Same as you.” 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale struggled, pulling his mouth free of Crowley’s fingers, leaving them slick and crooked before him, looking all too appetizing. He wanted nothing more than to devour them again, but he had to focus. “Love?” he said, uncertain he’d hear that correctly. 

“Oh, tell the whole bloody world, why don’t you?” Crowley said, but he was grinning.

Aziraphale didn’t realize he was crying until he felt one renegade tear escape to trail down his cheek, disappearing into the fabric of the sofa beneath them. “Oh, Crowley.” It was all he could think to say at first. Then, “I adore you, my darling. I thought… That is, I… Never thought you’d… I was just so afraid I’d—”

“I’m getting a little tired of being afraid all the time,” Crowley interjected, searching Aziraphale’s face for the permission he needed. “Aren’t you?”

Aziraphale breathed out a deep, steady sigh. “Oh, yes. _God_ , yes.”

Crowley’s hand relaxed in Aziraphale’s hair where he’d been clutching the back of his head, lowering him gently to rest on the couch. His other hand moved slowly, as if afraid it would spook the trembling angel beneath him, to press against his belly, toying at the buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

“Now,” the angel warned. “You be careful with those.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley sighed. “Won’t damage your precious Victorian attire, angel. Relax.”

The waistcoat was laid carefully to the side, with all the reverence a nearly two-hundred-year old garment deserved, Aziraphale observed with satisfaction. 

Crowley dipped his head lower, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s stomach. He looked up at him, catching his eye. 

“Okay, angel?” he asked, brushing fingers lightly over the fastening of Aziraphale’s trousers. 

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale nodded, craning his neck to watch as Crowley miracled his trousers open. Elegant hands glided effortlessly over the long line of buttons, pausing briefly to palm the angel's already rigid cock through the soft fabric. 

“Hnn,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing instinctively up into Crowley’s hand. “I think that counts as cheating,” he said, gazing up at Crowley with a smirk. 

Crowley frowned at him, not one to be deterred from his task. “You do know zippers exist? And you with all these buttons?” he asked. “I’m just being efficient.”

“Fair enough,” Aziraphale shrugged, suddenly no longer in the mood to argue. 

Now it was Crowley’s turn to smirk. He hooked both thumbs into the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers, and pressed a tender kiss to his belly again. “S’alright if I take these off?” he purred, looking up at him for permission. 

The angel was panting now, nearly gasping for breath, and trembled, really trying to take in the fact that this was actually happening. He nodded vigorously, quite unable to speak. 

“Mhmm,” he managed finally. “Yes, if you please.”

Crowley grinned. “Well, you know me, angel. I do aim to please.” He winked, and began working Aziraphale’s trousers down. “Here,” he said, tugging to urge him up, “Lift your hips.”

It was awkward, and took a bit of navigation on both their parts, but after a few seconds of struggling and one point where Aziraphale’s trousers got all bunched up uncomfortably around his ankles, they managed to get his legs free. 

Crowley ran one index finger up from Aziraphale’s calf, pausing to snap the little leather strap on his sock garters. “You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met,” he chuckled. “You still wear these?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Can we move on from criticizing my clothing choices now, please? I had rather thought the point was to remove it, not provide commentary.”

“Oh, no,” said Crowley rather firmly. “You’re keeping these bad boys on for the duration; I’ve just decided.” He beamed and looked like he might burst out laughing at any moment, but instead he slid back up to capture Aziraphale’s mouth in a hungry kiss. 

“Ah—ahhnn…” Aziraphale felt the fight go right out of him with that, and let Crowley press their lips closer together, laving into his mouth in search of the little forked tongue he was sure he’d find there.

Crowley began laughing into his mouth just then, and pulled back, gazing at Aziraphale in open adoration. “You are an absolute mess, angel.” 

Before Aziraphale could think of any response, Crowley had returned his attention elsewhere. He stroked one hand softly over the now quite clear outline of Aziraphale’s cock through the thin fabric of his pants. It was wet, and felt warm and heavy to the touch. Aziraphale flinched in surprise, letting out a little squeak. 

“O-oh,” he stammered. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t be...” Crowley purred, dipping his face into Aziraphale’s neck and nuzzling him there. “You okay?”

Aziraphale sighed, trying to relax. “Oh, yes. Definitely.”

“Shhh,” Crowley steadied him, tracing little outlines down the length of Aziraphale’s arm with his other hand. “You tell me what you want.”

“Uh,” Aziraphale turned pink, ducking his face into Crowley’s chest. “Well, I…”

“Shall we get you out of this shirt?” asked Crowley, already reaching for the buttons. “Looks a bit warm.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, as if only now noticing he was still wearing the light blue button down. “Y-yes, I suppose we ought to.”

They managed, through some difficulty, to wiggle Aziraphale free of both the button down shirt and the (Crowley sighed here, casting his eyes Heavenwards) white t-shirt the angel was wearing underneath it; the final layer of Aziraphale’s wrapping. Once that was gone, tossed unceremoniously onto the floor behind the couch, Crowley sat back on his haunches, observing the angel laid out before him. 

“Now then,” he said with a huff, “What are we having first? Just a little appetizer?” He pawed at Aziraphale’s naked thigh, teasing. “Or should we jump right to the main course?”

“Well, I suppose…” Aziraphale leaned into Crowley’s touch against his inner thigh, sighing with pleasure at the sensation of cool hands against soft skin. “That depends.”

“Depends on what?” 

“What’s the main course?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “I’m starving, angel.”

“There was plenty of cake…” It was clear to Crowley from the little smirk on Aziraphale’s lips that he knew perfectly well the demon wasn’t talking about fucking cake.

“I want to give you whatever you want, Aziraphale.”

The angel quivered at the application of his full name, as opposed to the more frequently used, ‘angel.’ And the way Crowley said it; hungry, wanting. It made him squirm. “Well,” he grinned mischievously. “If you’re as hungry as you say…”

“Absolutely famished,” Crowley sighed dramatically, clutching a hand to his own chest. 

Aziraphale blushed in earnest now, but giggled, running with the metaphor. “Well, then… welcome to the all-you-can-eat buffet, I suppose. I’m yours, my dear.”

He was not prepared for the sound that came out of Crowley’s throat at that declaration. The demon practically growled, a guttural, primordial sound in the back of his throat that ended in the appearance of that little forked tongue licking hungrily over wet lips. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Crowley whispered, reaching for the only piece of clothing Aziraphale still had on (other than the socks and garters of course, and those were staying right where they were, thank you very much) a pair of white cotton pants that were truly too horrible even to be worth commenting on. He’d have to get Aziraphale some more appropriate lingerie, if they were to entertain similar strip teases in the future.

He all but ripped the pants off, sliding them down over thick, yielding thighs and past boney ankles he’d most recently seen through silk stockings several centuries past — teasing him with the sight of them attached to foppishly silver shoes that no one in their right mind would wear in revolutionary France — no one but his delightfully self-indulgent angel. 

Crowley reflected on the irony of those same ankles, now the only remaining portion of Aziraphale’s body that was covered. Those thin little tights had seemed so scandalous back in 17-whatever. He let his gaze drift upwards, relishing the sight of the angel laid bare, completely naked before him. 

Aziraphale’s cock was dripping with pre-come, and he was flushed pink all over — especially those pretty rosy nipples. Crowley smiled to himself, taking in the sight of white hair dusted over flushing nips like so much fairy dust. He could swear to someone Aziraphale was shimmering like a sodding Twilight vampire. He looked positively ravished, and they hadn’t even gotten started yet. 

“W-what are you staring at?” Aziraphale asked, hands coming up to flutter self-consciously over his torso. 

“You’re fucking beautiful, angel.”

Satan’s sake, Crowley noted, even the little poof of hair between his legs was white as a cumulus cloud, like a fluffy patch of cotton candy. Crowley’s mouth watered at the idea of rubbing his face in it, slowly working his way down to devour the angel’s cock. 

And so he leaned forward, dipping his head to do precisely that. He first pressed his lips to the little space where thigh met hip, making Aziraphale flinch in surprise.  
“C-Crowley,” he gasped. “Wait. Maybe we should… You don’t have to do this. Just because _I_ like something, doesn’t mean _you_ have to.”

“Angel.” Crowley placed his hands carefully on Aziraphale’s hips, smoothing them against flushed skin. “Do you want me to suck your cock right now? Would you like that?”

Aziraphale whimpered, quivering under Crowley’s gentle touch and the deep comforting sound of his voice. “Mmmm… yes?”

“Okay,” Crowley smiled. “Then that’s what I’m going to do. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to like it just fine. And so long as you’re enjoying yourself, I don’t want you to worry about anything. Now, all you’ve got to do is lie back…” He tucked a wayward strand of red hair behind his ear, and resettled himself between Aziraphale’s legs again, “and relax.” He watched the angel’s face for any hint of uncertainty. “Okay?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath and dropping his head backwards. “Okay.”

Crowley kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s cock, letting his forked tongue flutter out to tickle the tip, eliciting something like a squeal from the angel. Aziraphale squirmed, writhing in reaction to the delicate touch, and Crowley’s hands moved to grip his legs, thumbs pressing reassuringly against the inside of trembling thighs. 

He’d done this so many times — he was an old pro at it now, had been for ages. You carry out enough sexual temptations on Hell’s behalf, you learn to use whatever you can to distract the victim from your own lack of interest. But he’d never done it because he wanted to. He’d certainly never done it for someone he loved. That aspect of it was new territory, and he reveled in it.

Crowley softened his lips, taking all of Aziraphale into his mouth at once, satisfied only when he felt the angel’s cock pressing urgently against the back of his throat. 

There were some perks to being a demon, after all. Having no gag reflex was just one of them.

Aziraphale’s brain was quickly spiraling out of control. This was happening. This was actually, currently happening. He wasn’t dreaming (which was difficult to do, when one so rarely slept), he wasn’t fantasizing (certainly he had an active imagination, but had yet to produce results this tangible or realistic even in his wildest, most creative thoughts), and he was pretty sure he wasn’t losing his grip on reality. 

Crowley had his lips — warm, softened, wet lips, Aziraphale noted with a groan — wrapped around his cock and was actively hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard, sliding his tongue along Aziraphale’s length as if it were the most delicious thing he’d ever had in his mouth. Those beautiful, thin hands that Aziraphale loved so much were currently cradling his thighs on either side, gently soothing up and down along his skin, independent of Crowley’s head moving between the angel’s legs. 

_Good Lord_ , he thought. Crowley’s head was between his legs. The mere thought of it was nearly enough to push him over the edge. He couldn’t quite cope with it; with the knowledge that it was actually happening, let alone the visual he was privy to at the moment, watching Crowley’s face as it moved up and down, his mouth messy and hungry, a little line of drool spilling carelessly from one corner, coating Aziraphale in slick. His eyes were closed and he looked as if he were deep in concentration, focused on his task. 

Then, quite suddenly, as if he could somehow sense Aziraphale’s gaze on him, Crowley opened his eyes. 

He let Aziraphale’s cock pop free of his lips, moving immediately to take it in hand. “All right, angel?” His voice was low and thick, like he had something in his throat. Aziraphale turned a deeper shade of red, realizing that what Crowley had in his throat was probably a great deal of his own pre-come. 

“Y-yes,” he managed to say. “That’s… uh…” he sighed, digging his fists into the throw pillows on either side of his body. “I am extremely all right, my dear.”

Crowley grinned, chuckling quietly, before lowering his face back into the soft curve of Aziraphale’s inner thigh. His tongue darted out, a flicker of pink tickling Aziraphale’s skin, before he took the angel’s cock back into his mouth, sucking in earnest, even more insistent than before. 

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale’s breath was coming in short, heavy gasps. He felt that with each rasping breath, he came a bit closer to the edge, and he was dimly aware of his thighs and calf muscles tightening in response, pushing back only half-heartedly as Crowley’s hands pressed his legs wider apart. At some point, his hands had migrated of their own accord from the pillows, back to Crowley’s shoulders, trailed up his neck which was all flexing tendons and corded sinew at the moment, and taken hold of the back of Crowley’s head. His fingers were tangled up in loose red tufts of hair, holding on for dear life as the climax began to wash over him, catching him somewhat off guard.

“Ah,” he cried, grasping the back of Crowley’s head more urgently, fingernails digging involuntarily into the demon’s scalp. “Crowley! I— I think I’m—”

Crowley answered by tightening his hold on Aziraphale’s thighs, tugging him closer, causing his lower back to drag along the couch cushions. He hummed against Aziraphale’s cock, sucking harder. 

White lights blazed behind Aziraphale’s closed eyelids, and he was startled when he found he could still see Crowley, quite clearly, from a vantage point somewhere around his right shoulder, sucking in earnest as Aziraphale came deep in his throat, buried in Crowley’s mouth to the hilt. He could also see Crowley from somewhere around his left knee, watching in awe as the demon fondled his balls in one hand. He blinked again, and realized he was looking at Crowley from somewhere just to the side of his usual eyes; his left cheekbone, perhaps? _Oh dear_ , he thought, coming down from the high of orgasm. _I’ve forgotten myself_. And really, who could blame him? The ethereal eyes tended to have a mind of their own in heightened moments such as this.

He blinked again, sending the extras back to the non-visible plane where they belonged. Crowley didn’t seem to have noticed, so Aziraphale didn’t mention it.

Crowley moved upwards, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes (his regular, run-of-the-mill corporeal ones, mind you) only briefly before pressing a kiss to his mouth, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close. Aziraphale marveled at the way their bodies merged, warm and familiar and fitting together like two puzzle pieces. Intentional.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed heavily, sinking back into the pillows. “Are you quite sure you’ve never done that before? That was…” He trailed off, closing his eyes in happy relaxation. 

It was only after a few moments had passed in heavy silence that he realized something wasn’t right. He opened his eyes to Crowley staring down at him, unblinking.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Uh,” Crowley blinked, as if he’d been somewhere far away, in his own thoughts. “Ye—no— …m’good.” He shifted, moving to pull away. “Done it plenty a times, angel,” he grunted, shrugging. “Never said I hadn’t.” 

Aziraphale felt something flutter between them then and at first he didn’t recognize it; it was so fleeting — there one moment and gone the next — and it seemed so out of place for the moment and situation… Shame. Humiliation. Self-hatred. He reached out, quickly grasping Crowley by the shoulders. 

“Oh!” he said, feeling like the personification of the adage, ‘putting one’s foot in one’s mouth,’ and smiled apologetically. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I suppose I… I assumed.” 

“S’alright,” Crowley shrugged, kissing him again. He offered a reassuring smile. “Is it cold in here, or s’it just me?” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiled, pulling some blankets over them. “You’re always cold, darling. I’m the one who’s naked.” He killed the lights with his own flick of the wrist, and settled comfortably into the dark.

“Hm,” Crowley rolled over next to him, yawning. “Comes of the snake blood, you know.” 

Crowley fit perfectly against his side, head tucked into the space alongside Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, his hand draped across his chest, legs intermingling with Aziraphale’s. 

“This might be a stupid question,” Aziraphale said, “but…”

Crowley stirred, his glowing eyes meeting Aziraphale’s in the dark.

“Hmm?”

“Is there anything…?” Aziraphale was glad for the dim light of the room, his cheeks burning. “Anything nice I can do for you, my dear? In return?”

Crowley burrowed deeper into the blanket, sighing sleepily. “You can give me a solid eight hours, maybe.”

Aziraphale chuckled, wrapping his arms around the demon. “All right,” he said. “I think I can manage that.”

They lay there in the quiet for a long time, and Aziraphale began to wonder if perhaps Crowley had fallen asleep. 

“You know Crowley,” he said softly. “I can’t begin to imagine why it should matter to me what you’ve done or not done, in the past.”

The silence stretched between them and Aziraphale listened to the regular, steady sound of Crowley’s breathing. Perhaps the dear had fallen asleep. It was difficult to tell.

“Not to say that I don’t care,” Aziraphale went on, whispering. “Of course I care, insomuch as I’m always interested to know more about you, my dear; anything you want to tell me. I only mean to say, it would be quite absurd of me, I think, to begrudge you that, or to be jealous, or have any untoward opinion of you based on past experience. That’s all your own business, naturally. In any case, it seems I made an unfounded assumption, I suppose. I’m sorry for that.”

Seconds passed by in the dark, and presently Aziraphale became aware of the quieter sounds in the room, namely the old grandfather clock over his desk, ticking away unceasingly. 

“S’a safe assumption to make, innit?” Crowley drawled, his voice fuzzy but very much awake. 

Aziraphale started, half surprised to hear Crowley speak. “Well, I don’t know.”

“Six-thousand-year-old virgin expert at giving head seems likely to you?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale scoffed. “We’re both far older than that, my dear,”

“Strictly speaking on the age of this body, as it were.”

“Oh, I see.”

The room grew quiet again. Aziraphale absent-mindedly toyed with the edge of the blanket, tugging it to better cover them both.

“So how _are_ you such an expert?” he asked, trying for cheeky. 

“Idunwannatalkaboutit.”

“Oh.” 

_Well, all right then._

The grandfather clock ticked inexorably onward while the occasional car whooshed through rain puddles on the street outside. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” Aziraphale said, stroking one hand up and down Crowley’s back in a soothing motion. “What I meant to say was… you did handle it… expertly.”

Crowley huffed a laugh against the skin of Aziraphale’s throat. “Yeah?”

“I think that’s safe to say, yes.”

Crowley laughed, twisting deeper into the blanket. “And how would you know, angel? You uh… had many experts down there before?”

“No, I can’t say I have,” said Aziraphale. “Still, you seemed to know what you were doing. It certainly had the desired result.”

“I’d sssay,” the demon hissed, tickling Aziraphale’s neck with his serpent’s tongue. 

“Oh, _you_.”

They stayed curled up together like that, limbs intermingled, and presently Aziraphale could hear the change in Crowley’s breathing that indicated sleep. After a fashion, he even dozed himself for a while, hugging Crowley close, letting his eyes fall closed and dipping into that strange and unusual state known as unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

When Crowley woke up, Aziraphale was asleep underneath him. 

Asleep. Aziraphale was asleep. 

Crowley blinked, taking that in. The angel was still naked, all bundled in blankets, and the soft hair of his chest lay bare beneath Crowley’s hands. His head was tilted to one side, his mouth slightly open in sleep. 

Crowley lay there, too afraid to move, in awe. He had never, not once, in six thousand years of shared existence, ever seen Aziraphale sleep. He was relaxed and unaware; unafraid, completely at ease. A bright beam of morning sunlight was working its way slowly across the upholstery of the obnoxiously red velvet couch, and pretty soon it would make its way from the pillows and onto Aziraphale’s face. 

Crowley thought for a moment, considering, and snapped his fingers, changing the furniture back to the way it had been — the old lumpy leather couch reappeared, the sudden shift of it reforming beneath them, jostling their bodies and shoving him closer to Aziraphale. The angel stirred slightly in sleep, squeezing his eyes tight and then opening them. 

“Hmm, Crowley?” Aziraphale stretched, yawning as he came to full wakefulness. 

“Morning, angel,” Crowley hummed in response, propping his chin up on one hand where he lay across Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Did the couch just… get smaller?” Aziraphale sat up slightly, looking around in the confusion of a man recently awakened — which was of course not a state he would have had much experience with. 

“I liked it better the way it was, yeah,” Crowley said, resettling himself across Aziraphale’s body. “That other thing was fine for a one-night deal, but it was a bit too pumpkin carriage, wasn’t it? Ought to have changed back into its old self around midnight, I think.”

“And I suppose,” Aziraphale stretched, yawning, “You are meant to be Cinderella in this scenario?”

“Oh no, angel,” Crowley smiled, “Little glass slippers are definitely more your style, I think.”

Aziraphale was regarding Crowley thoughtfully, and sat up on his elbows to kiss him. “I do suppose you’re right,” he said. “I must apologize, dear. It seems I fell asleep on you last night.”

“Well,” said Crowley, sliding down the angel’s body just enough to plant a kiss at the top of his soft round stomach, “Technically, I fell asleep on you. Anyway, I thought that was the plan?”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I suppose it was.” He watched as Crowley’s little snake tongue darted out, his head traveling southwards with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I suppose that’s… Oh dear, Crowley—”

The demon’s head had just slipped beneath the blankets. 

“Now, hold on just a minute!” said Aziraphale, tossing the blankets aside. 

Crowley’s mouth was open, fully ready to start the second course on Aziraphale’s dick when the angel gathered him up under the arms and hoisted him upwards, kissing his lips a bit more urgently than before. 

“Wouldn’t you like to have some breakfast first?” He asked, pulling away just enough to give Crowley a skeptical glance. 

Crowley huffed a laugh. “What did it look like I was doing, angel?”

“I was thinking something a bit more like coffee and… perhaps a bit of that raspberry jam you like? On toast?”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, but he let Aziraphale get up without argument. He pushed past Crowley, taking the blankets with him, wrapping them about his body like a great big toga. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale walk into the kitchen, and yawned, feeling all lazy in his limbs, and quite comfortable. He sprawled on the couch, waiting for him to come back. He tried to remember the last time he’d been this fully at ease, and found his mind quite blank, unable to recall.

When Aziraphale returned, he was fully dressed, carrying a tray of drinks and assorted breads. Crowley glanced around, quite sure he’d laid the velvet waistcoat and shirt aside here somewhere the night before. The angel’s bowtie had been tossed over the back of the couch, but it wasn’t there now — miraculously replaced around Aziraphale’s collar when Crowley wasn’t looking, he could only assume. He huffed, mildly annoyed. 

Aziraphale set down the tray, heavily laden with a big carafe of delicious smelling coffee, a teapot, and a tiny silver pitcher full of cream. There was brioche, thick slices of French toast (dripping in the aforementioned raspberry jam), and some kind of little bun with sugar glaze and chocolate sprinkles over top. 

Crowley suspected that if he bit into it, there would be a chocolatey center in the middle. So he did, and to his satisfaction, was proven right. Crowley didn’t always have the biggest sweet tooth, but even he couldn’t say no to a perfectly flakey _pain au chocolat_ , all warm and crisp around the melted chocolate inside. 

He closed his eyes, humming with pleasure, and happily swallowed down the succulent pastry. When he looked back at the table, Aziraphale was pouring a hot mug of coffee, tendrils of steam rising from the cup. He watched as Aziraphale added a healthy bit of heavy cream, spooned in a dash of sugar, and turned toward Crowley, offering the now velvety smooth concoction. 

“Thanks, angel,” he said, feeling his cheeks turn pink at the simple familiarity of Aziraphale knowing exactly how he liked his coffee. 

“You’re most welcome, dear,” Aziraphale said, reaching for the pot of tea and pouring himself a cup. 

They sat there in the morning quiet for a few moments, sipping at their mugs. Crowley was struck suddenly by the simple domesticity of it. Not for the first time, he was overcome with disbelief that they could have this. This new normal was still so difficult to swallow, hard to accept. Impossible to acknowledge that he might actually deserve it. 

How could he? After everything he’d said and done and been? 

Impossible. Yet here they were.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s soft questioning voice cut through his self-deprecating thoughts like a very gentle knife, stopping him before he devolved into anything too overtly harmful. 

“Hn?” He looked up from his coffee, feeling naked without his glasses. Where had they gone, anyway, the night before? He didn’t know. 

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, “You’re right about this couch.” He looked down at it, smoothing one hand over the worn out leather. “It’s best to keep it as is, I think — but it’s not exactly the most comfortable space for two.” He looked at Crowley, his cheeks going a bit pink. “I think we could do with somewhere to spread out a bit more, don’t you?”

“Uh,” Crowley shrugged, “Sure, angel, but where? I mean, s’not as if you can squeeze a bedroom into this place. You’ve got books everywhere.” 

He glanced around, noting the stacks of books piled waist high alongside most of the walls, double-stacked shelves, and even a few racks with piles on top, towering up towards the ceiling. 

“Well,” Aziraphale shrugged, fidgeting with his tea cup. “I suppose we could make use of the upstairs flat.”

Crowley nearly choked on his coffee. “What upstairs flat?” 

Aziraphale pulled a face, looking over his shoulder and pointing towards the far wall of the bookshop, where a veritable mountain of books lay stacked against the wall, going up and up to an almost impossible height.

“See there?” He pointed. 

“Uhh,” said Crowley. “Yeah. Big stack of them. What’s new?”

Aziraphale sighed, stood up from the couch, and raised both hands, snapping his fingers downwards. The massive collection of books rose into the air, organizing themselves into tidy little rows — monstrous stacks, but neatly organized stacks all the same — and Aziraphale made to move them aside into an open space. 

“Oh,” he said, his face falling when he realized the space he’d planned to set them in was already quite full. “Well,” he said, directing the books into another open space that was… ah, upon further inspection, less than open. “That is… um… hmm…” Aziraphale glanced around the shop, his eyes failing to land on any space large enough to house the massive body of levitating books. 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” said Crowley, getting to his feet. He snapped his fingers abruptly upwards, opening the gaping maw of a black hole in the middle of the room. Something like hurricane force winds shuddered through the bookshop, causing volumes to burst open all over, pages fluttering past in the gale.

“Ah!” Aziraphale cried, justifiably startled. 

Before he could say anything further, Crowley waved his arms, sending the body of hovering books towards the portal, the mass of them disappearing into the blackness inside. Crowley raised his fingers again, closing it up with a tidy snap — and turned to gape at the impossible thing before him. 

A wooden staircase going up the previously obscured wall of the shop, a landing, and at the top, an unassuming door. 

He spun around to look at Aziraphale. “Angel. Has that always been there?”

“More importantly,” Aziraphale said through clenched teeth, hands balled into fists at his sides, “Did you just send my Wilde first editions into the _void_?!”

“Uh,” Crowley said, distracted by the neat little scene before him, “Yeeeah. I mean—” He turned to Aziraphale, putting his hands up defensively, “Yes. But it’s a… very particular, specific void.[6] I know how to get ‘em back.”

The angel was looking at him, wide-eyed and on the verge of mad panic. “You had better.”

“Angel,” Crowley shrugged. “Come on. Would I do that to you?”

“Well,” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose not.”

“Anyway,” Crowley said, sticking his hands in his pockets, and surveying the little staircase again. “Let it be a lesson to you not to leave your collectibles lying around in a pile. Honestly…”

“That pile hasn’t moved in almost a hundred years,” Aziraphale said, going to his desk and digging around in one of the drawers. “One might argue it was the safest place for them.”

Crowley was already crossing the shop, going up the little staircase and coming to a stop before the unassuming, perfectly normal doorway at the top. 

He tried the door, and was startled to find it locked. He snapped, attempting to miracle it open, but it remained closed. Well, that was odd. No door in this shop had ever been closed to Crowley. Not since the day it was built. Now, why would…

He was distracted from his thoughts by Aziraphale climbing the stairs, a skeleton key in his hand. 

“Oh,” he said, coming to join Crowley on the landing. “I’ll have to just…” he trailed off. “Eh, give me… just one moment, would you?”

Crowley was growing more suspicious by the second, but said nothing. As soon as he heard the key click in the lock, he pushed the door open, surging past, and left Aziraphale sputtering on the landing. 

“Now, just a minute!” He was calling, following urgently behind Crowley. 

The door opened onto a narrow hallway. There wasn’t much to see there, but when Crowley turned into the first doorway on the left, his eyes fell on a cozy looking (if a bit dusty) sitting room. Aziraphale was quickly trailing behind him, so he moved on, passing through a doorway on the opposite side of the room that opened into a — _Oh_. 

It was a bedroom, and it was clearly the space that had been given the most attention and care over anything else in the flat. 

The huge canopy bed stood in the center of the far wall of the room, flanked by two large and ornate paintings on either side, both hung in bright gold frames. One depicted the familiar scene in the Garden, the tree looming large in the center, and a figure that was clearly meant to be Crowley himself, all black robes and wings and cascading red hair, offering an apple to Eve.

On the opposite side, there was a corresponding scene that would have of course been far less notorious to the world as was its counterpart. In it, a blond angel in white robes offered a flaming sword to Adam, their hands outstretched in a mirror of the scene in the first painting. 

Crowley heard Aziraphale come stumbling after him, and turned to look at him as he fell against the door frame, clamoring for purchase and wheezing to catch his breath. 

“I…” he gasped. “Told you to… wait,” he said.

“Angel,” Crowley said, turning to look at the room again. “How long has this been here?”

Aziraphale looked up at him from where he was grasping the crown molding. “Ah…” He shrugged. “Hard to say…”

Crowley offered a skeptical look, his eyebrows rising up towards his hairline. Aziraphale looked up at him, a bit sheepishly, and shrugged. 

“We’re a right pathetic lot,” Crowley sighed, crossing his arms in front of him and leaning against the opposite side of the doorframe. “Aren’t we?”

Aziraphale let out a breath he’d been holding, and smiled, his face going pink. “It certainly seems that way,” he said. “Or at least, I surely am.” 

He rose to his full height, tugging down on his waistcoat and gazing affectionately into the room. “Think I decided, whether I was fully conscious of it at the time or not, to add this onto the rest of the shop, as soon as you mentioned you’d gotten a place across town. Suppose I thought…” He looked at the floor, worrying a dust bunny with the toe of his shoe. “Oh, I don’t know what I thought, then. That you’d… get too drunk to go home one night. Maybe you’d stay here. And it seemed only rational to have a comfortable place for you to rest. Sleep, if you wanted. Something other than a lumpy old leather couch.”

“Was it old and lumpy, even back then?” Crowley asked, quirking a smile. 

“You know, I could swear it was,” Aziraphale mused. “Though in retrospect, it must have been new and solid… at some point in time.”

Crowley laughed, rocking on his toes, and looking at the room again. “And what makes you think you’re the only one?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Only one what?”

“Pathetic.”

“Oh,” the angel sighed. “Well, I don’t see you putting up hope chests and fully decorated bedrooms and then secreting them away like a pitiful bird building a nest that’ll never be shared.”

“Is that so?” Crowley sighed, crossing the threshold of the room and walking in to get a better look. “I had bunk beds in mine for a while, ya know.”

“Bunk beds?” Aziraphale echoed.

Crowley ran a finger over the dresser, bringing it away with centuries worth of dust firmly attached. This had been here far longer than Aziraphale’s claim of a mere one hundred years, but Crowley let it go without comment. “Yeah,” he said. “Like we were going to fucking summer camp. Then it was two twin-sized mattresses, with the nightstand between, _I Love Lucy_ style.

Aziraphale clasped his hands, tentatively stepping into the room behind Crowley. “What’s… _I Love Lucy_?”

“Old television programme, angel.” Crowley looked up suddenly, as if stricken. “You serious? Don’t tell me you missed that one?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale waved Crowley’s comment away. “You know I’m always a bit behind on those sorts of things, dear.”

“It aired in the fucking sixties, angel,” Crowley grimaced. “Anyway, eventually I settled on something…” He looked up at the bed, taking in its huge wooden posts at each corner, the deep blue curtains held open with golden braided rope, “Not dissimilar from this, actually. Big obnoxious California king… black silk sheets with way too many pillows, and…” he looked up, catching Aziraphale’s eye. “Maybe a bit modern for your tastes, but…”

Aziraphale’s face went blank, and he blinked at Crowley. “But Crowley, that sounds like the bed you’ve got now.”

Crowley shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and sauntered back over to Aziraphale’s side of the room. “And I finally mustered up the guts to invite you over to stay that night… and you said no, you righteous little tart.”

“I…” Aziraphale protested. “But I _did_ stay with you!”

“You sat out on that miserable designer couch reading an Ian Fleming novel, when you might have been in bed with me. And I lay awake there, wishing you were, all night. Now, how’s _that_ for pathetic?”

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth open, and finally sighed, looking away and smiling to himself. 

“Oh, my dear,” he said finally. “When I think of all the time we wasted, I…”

“It wasn’t wasted, angel,” Crowley said, coming closer. “We both knew the stakes. Couldn’t have ever been this way, back then. Too dangerous.”

Aziraphale stepped forward, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Yeah,” Crowley laid a hand on Aziraphale’s back, hugging him closer. “Don’t suppose we’re in any danger now though, do you?”

Aziraphale hummed against the beating thrum of Crowley’s pulse in his throat. “No, I don’t think so, dear. Which leads me to my next question.”

“Oh?” Crowley stood up a little straighter. 

“Yes, well. You did something very… _nice_ … for me… last night,” Aziraphale said, looking coyly up at Crowley.

For his part, the demon made no discernible reaction to the word, not giving Aziraphale the satisfaction.[7]

“And now I want to do something nice for you,” Aziraphale concluded, offering Crowley a conspiratorial little grin.

He pulled away from Crowley, wandering off through another door on the opposite end of the bedroom. Crowley remained standing, unsure whether or not he should follow, until the sound of swiftly running water hit his ears. He followed Aziraphale through the door, and entered a huge master bathroom. It was sprawling, and bright, and covered in tile from floor to ceiling, decorated in the style of the old Greco-Roman baths. It featured leaping dolphins and geometric patterns and blue arching waves splashed across the walls. 

Aziraphale was leaning over a massive tub, recessed into the floor, with bright blue tiled steps rising to meet the slightly elevated edge. The angel held one finger beneath the tap, testing the temperature of the water that was shooting into the pool below, filling it with steam. Presently, he turned to reach for a little glass bottle of what looked like oil, pouring a substantial amount of it into the tub. 

He looked up at Crowley, offering a smile. 

“Please come in, dear,” he said, setting the bottle of oil to the side and going to open a cabinet, producing a big bundle of plush towels from inside. “Tell me if that water is hot enough for you.”[8]

“Angel, this place is ridiculous,” Crowley said, approaching the tub.

Aziraphale was busy uncorking a bottle of thick, purple liquid, and stopped to look up at Crowley, frowning. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”

“I mean, it’s over the top. Too much. Extra. Beyond all reason. You know, ridiculous.” Crowley paused, quirking an eyebrow, “In exactly the right way. It’s perfect.”

Aziraphale scoffed, pouring half the bottle of the purple liquid[9] into the water. “Oh, good then. You had me worried for a moment — thought perhaps you’d gone and become a reasonable person, after all.”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley chuckled, looking at the collection of bottles lined up along the edge of the tub. “You planning on making some kind of stew out of me, or what?” He asked, peering into the water. “You’ve certainly got enough ingredients there.”

“Just one remaining,” said Aziraphale, smiling up at Crowley. He made to get up, pressing off the edge of the tub as he rose to his feet. “Do get in dear, and enjoy. I’ll just—” 

Crowley snapped his fingers and was naked.

Aziraphale, who had only made it halfway to his feet, was left bent over at waist level, face to face with Crowley’s boney, very pale hip bones. Incidentally, he was also face to face with Crowley’s utter lack of any kind of genitalia. He looked up, eyebrows rising, and slowly blinked at the demon. Crowley was grinning down at him, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

“Well. There you are, then,” Aziraphale said, sounding less than impressed. “Enjoy.” He stood up and turned for the door. 

“Now, just a damn minute,” said Crowley. “Where are you going?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale called after him, passing through the door, “I’ll only be a moment, dear. We’ve got to have a bottle of something bubbly to go with the bubbles, now don’t we?”

“Right…” Crowley mused, putting one foot into the steaming hot water, and then the other. 

He sank into it, breathing out a satisfied sigh as the waterline rose to cover his body all the way up to his chin. The lightly purple tinted bubbles were already frothing up into a massive fluffy cloud, threatening to spill over the edge and onto the floor now that Crowley had displaced some of the water.

He closed his eyes, reveling in the soothing heat that was sinking deep into his bones, and sighed. Something _nice_ indeed. 

Crowley might have drifted off to sleep, right there in the not-quite boiling water, if not for the sound of footfalls on the stairs again just as he was dozing. Aziraphale came into the room carrying a little bamboo tray laden with two fluted glasses, a bowl of grapes and cheese, and a big bottle of softly pink-tinted wine. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, setting the tray down and plucking the bottle of sparkling rosé up, twisting off the wire wrapping and tossing it aside. “You look quite comfortable.”

“Two glasses, angel?” Crowley noted, rising out of the water enough to rest his elbows on the edge of the tub. “I take it that means you plan on joining me?”

Aziraphale froze with his hands wrapped around the neck of the bottle, “Ah, well… y-yes? If that would be welcome?”

“Like you even have to ask,” Crowley drawled. “By all means, then. Let me help you.” He snapped his fingers, miracling Aziraphale’s waistcoat, both shirts, trousers, and shoes right off of his body with an audible _POP!_. 

Aziraphale let out something between a gasp and a yelp, pressing down a bit too hard on the cork of the bottle in his surprise, causing it to burst open in a loud bang, and a spray of bubbling liquid.

He looked down to find himself wearing an odd collection of his remaining clothing items — socks, sock garters,[10] pants, and the bowtie, encircling his otherwise quite naked neck all on its own. “Crowley!”

The demon erupted into laughter, sloshing water and bubbles everywhere. “What?” He shrugged. “Your hands were too full to be operating buttons. Did you a favor.”

“Please tell me you sent those to the same very specific void you sent the books to? The one you definitely know how to get back into again?”

Crowley closed his eyes, smiling primly. “Nope.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What do you mean, nope?”

“They’re in your closet. In the bedroom.” Crowley pointed toward the door, splashing more water onto the floor. “Just there.”

Aziraphale sighed in relief. “Oh, right then.”

He poured the bubbling rosé into fluted glasses, picked up the little tray again, and brought it to the tub. He set it there, longways over the water so one end was perched on either side. 

“Now,” he said, looking down at his remaining attire (which, he noted, was comprised mostly of accessories). “I suppose you can send these off along with them, if you don’t mind. I can’t see the use in a tie with no shirt, and certainly not in the bath.”[11]

“Sure. And don’t mind me if those pants never make it back.” 

“W-what’s wrong with my pants?” Aziraphale frowned. 

“Nothing, angel,” Crowley chuckled. “A conversation for another time.” He snapped his fingers and the remaining articles of Aziraphale’s clothing disappeared. His eyes drifted downwards, lingering on Aziraphale’s cock where it was resting placidly between his legs. “You wear that thing around all the time?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale looked down at the organ, as if he’d quite forgotten it was there.[12] “Generally speaking, yes.” He looked up at Crowley, gauging his reaction. “Should I put it away? It’s not going to be troublesome, is it?”

Crowley looked up at him with slightly hooded eyes. “Troublesome?” He said. “Well, I don’t know, angel. S’pose that depends.”

Aziraphale didn’t quite roll his eyes, but it was a near case. “I meant, Crowley… Is it going to bother you?”

“Why should it bother me?” Crowley shrugged, sloshing water. “You’re the one it’s attached to. Can’t see why I should be bothered.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, shaking his head as he stepped delicately into the water. “Oh, never mind.”

He gripped the edge of the tub, carefully lowering himself down into the water and settling his legs into the space along Crowley’s side, so they were facing each other. The little bamboo tray hovered between them, and Aziraphale reached out for a handful of grapes and cheese, popping some into his mouth. 

“Why not just miracle it away when you’re done with it?” “Crowley asked. 

“M’sorry?” Aziraphale said, his mouth full. 

“Your cock, angel. Why wear it all the time?”

Aziraphale tried not to choke, laughing. “I don’t… Crowley…”

“What? Seems like it’d just get in the way all the time. What’s the point of it?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale shrugged. “I like it. I like having one. Had one for so long now, I’ve gotten rather attached to it, I suppose.”

“That so?” Crowley looked skeptical. “Never could quite see the point,” he said, sipping his wine, pink bubbles dancing their way over his tongue. “But to each their own, I guess.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly, uncertain whether or not he ought to even be broaching this topic again, it had seemed such a sore spot last night, “Can I ask you something?”

“Why I don’t like sex?” Crowley said, his face set, blank.

“Oh—” Aziraphale put a hand up, regretting the shift in topic immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just…” 

“You ever hear the saying, don’t turn your hobbies into work? They won’t be fun anymore?”

“Uh,” Aziraphale stared at him. “I’ve heard… something like that.”

“Well,” shrugged Crowley, “Similar concept, I s’pose. Except… Never was any fun in the first place. I guess…” He looked up at Aziraphale, watching him over the rim of his glass. “I can see why you enjoy it. I just can’t… imagine it for myself. Used to do all kinds of things for temptations. Whatever they most wanted, and weren’t accustomed to getting. Tying them up, handcuffs, sucking them off, whatever. S’long as I didn’t have to actually fuck them, it was fair game.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, looking stricken. “Crowley…”

“Just a lot of noise and body fluids, really. Dunno. Never saw much point in it.” He paused, locking eyes with Aziraphale. “You certainly seem to like it, though. I guess that makes it a _little_ interesting. And I’ve gotta admit, last night was…” He hesitated, not sure how to explain himself. He took a big gulp of wine, buying time.

Aziraphale was watching him with a soft glimmer in his eye. “It’s different, I think,” he said. “When you care for someone.”

Crowley had the distinct impression his cheeks had turned the same color as his drink. “Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a slightly awkward moment, just enjoying the warmth of the water and the taste of sparkling wine, not looking at one another.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale said finally. “That all sounds… quite awful.”

“Oh,” Crowley shrugged. “S’fine. I’m fine. Could have turned out worse.”

Aziraphale was frowning at him again. 

“I mean, they never actually made me screw anyone.”

“Oh,” scoffed Aziraphale, looking Heavenwards. “How very thoughtful of them.”

Crowley laughed. “Yeah. I know. But it’s something, I guess.” He raised his glass in a mocking toast. “My virtue remains intact. Hallelujah.”

Aziraphale was openly scowling at him now. “There’s no such thing as virginity, Crowley,” he said gently. “Surely you know that.”

Crowley shrugged as he finished off his drink. “Hmm… wouldn’t know,” he said. “Don’t much care.”

“Well, I can’t see why you should,” agreed Aziraphale. “Anyway,” he sighed, “I think you ought to be able to do whatever you want, now, and not for anyone else’s benefit.” He looked up, catching Crowley’s eye. “Or not do anything at all. As long as you’re happy, dear. That’s all that will ever matter… as far as I’m concerned.”

Crowley’s cheeks were glowing pink, blushing in the warmth of the water, and the wine, and perhaps also a bit under Aziraphale’s gentle scrutiny. “Uh… yeah,” he said simply, not meeting his eyes. “Thanks, angel.”

“Naturally,” Aziraphale nodded primly, pouring more rosé for both of them. “But,” he settled back against the wall of the tub. “If you ever… wanted...”

Crowley looked up, heat flooding his chest and face. 

Aziraphale was watching him cautiously. “My dear. Surely you know I would never ask anything of you that you didn’t enthusiastically want to give…”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley said quickly, taking another big sip of his drink. 

“Well,” Aziraphale plucked some grapes from the bowl, smoothing them between his fingers. “Enough about that.” He sighed, breathing in the sweet scent of the bubble bath, and oil, and soaps all around them. “Isn’t this lovely?”

“Heh, yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Takes me right back to those old Roman bath houses. We used to sit in there for days at a time, didn’t we?”

“It’s a wonder you had any skin left. You used to shrivel up like a sun-bleached prune.”

“You remember that one place where you could go in, pay a flat rate for the day, and get a deep tissue massage while you lay there in the bath stuffing yourself silly on wine, figs, and cheese?”

Aziraphale sighed fondly, remembering. “I do. It was genius, whoever came up with that. And the water was always perfect. Whatever happened to that place?”

Crowley frowned. “Hmm, dunno. Can’t recall.”[13]

Aziraphale laughed, sipping his rosé with an appreciative hum. “It’s funny,” he mused, swirling the glittering drink in his glass, “So much has changed since then, and yet…”

Crowley was smiling at him fondly over the plates of grapes and cheese and wine. “Here we are,” he said, “still perfectly happy with naught but some alcohol and a pool of hot water to enjoy it in.”

“And each other’s company, of course,” Aziraphale said, his voice low and thoughtful. “I think that’s really the key ingredient, isn’t it?”

Crowley’s pupils were wide and black against the amber irises of his eyes, and one corner of his lips rose in a smirk. He shook his head and let out a sigh. “Boy, angel. You’ve really got it bad, haven’t you? It’s pitiful, honestly.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “A rather hopeless case, I’m afraid.”

“It’s sad, is what it is,” Crowley tossed back the rest of his rosé, setting the empty glass aside. 

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed dramatically. “Nothing to be done about it, unfortunately.”

Crowley shrugged. “Guess I’ve just gotta stick around for good. Otherwise you’d be lost.”

“I think you may be right, my dear.” Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley’s hand where it was now resting on the edge of the tub. “And I think we’d better get you out of this water, now. You’re starting to look like one of those shriveled prunes, again. Anyway, you’ve given me an idea.”

“Oh?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you’ve had your snacks and your alcohol and plenty of hot water. Now I think it’s time for the rest.”

* * *

6 Crowley had a whole collection of carefully catalogued voids. They were organized in alphabetical order, beginning with Aardvark and ending with Zoroastrianism, and had proven quite useful in the past, when he needed to store things he didn’t feel like carrying around or leaving around for just anyone to find. Or that one time he’d needed to transport a statue featuring two… wrestling… angels... up three flights of stairs and into his flat. [return to text]

7 The satisfaction that accompanied Crowley’s cheeks turning bright pink, however, fully belonged to the angel. [return to text]

8 Demons prefer their baths above at least 102°C, just enough to keep a light boil going. Snakes prefer theirs at a relatively balmy 32°, so Crowley tends to split the difference at somewhere around 67°. [return to text]

9 It smelled of lavender, and came from a very exclusive boutique in Prague. Aziraphale had been holding onto it for longer than he cared to remember, but was now perfectly happy to lavish it on Crowley without a second thought. [return to text]

10 Crowley had already decided that if the angel was going to insist upon wearing them, then he was going to insist upon making them A THING. [return to text]

11 Crowley might have entertained a few uses, mostly centered around the concept of Aziraphale, looking like a very soft and pastel-clad Chippendales dancer doing the gavotte, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Perhaps it was best revisited at another time. [return to text]

12 He did forget it was there, on occasion. Once you’ve been wearing one for so long, it’s sort of like a ring worn daily on the same finger — after a fashion, one tends to forget it is there, yet feel strangely naked without it in its usual place. [return to text]

13 The detail they have both failed to recall is that this particular establishment was located in Pompeii, at the base of Mount Vesuvius — and the reason the water was always so perfect was because it was fed by volcanic hot springs. [return to text]


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

“The… the rest?” Crowley asked, but Aziraphale was already up, wrapping a towel around his waist, and holding one out for Crowley.

He stood, letting the angel drape the soft white towel across his shoulders, pulling it close around his body. Little miracles, he thought… it felt warm, like it had come fresh from the dryer, even though he knew it had been lying there on the countertop for the last thirty minutes or so.

Aziraphale ushered him back into the bedroom, his hands rubbing warmth deeper into Crowley’s shoulders as they walked.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, pointing Crowley toward the bed. “Why don’t you have a nice lie down?”

He went over to the bed, dropping the warm towel and crawling under the coverlet in one fluid motion to bury his head in the soft mountain of pillows waiting there.

He peeked out from under the covers, watching Aziraphale as he walked over to the closet, dropping his own towel unceremoniously on the floor. When he reemerged from the wardrobe, he was wearing a soft looking shirt (with short sleeves! And a v-neck!) and some very comfy looking pajama pants. Crowley ducked back under the blankets, trying to hide the smile it brought to his lips. He didn’t think the angel had ever looked softer, more domestically cozy — certainly never in front of Crowley. It made him blush, thinking of how buttoned up and thoroughly covered the angel usually was. It was intimate in a way that being completely naked wasn’t.

Aziraphale walked over to the nightstand, producing a small bottle of liquid from a drawer.

“Angel?” Crowley said, suddenly uncertain about where this was going, “What…”

“I believe you mentioned massage earlier,” said Aziraphale, opening the bottle and pouring a small amount of the liquid into his palm. “I’ll give you one, if you like.”

He looked up at Crowley, perhaps searching for the uncertainty in his eyes that Crowley already knew was there. He glanced down again, staring at the pillow. “Uh…” he said. “Oh. Yeah, okay.”

“I know how troubling that spine can be for you, dear,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his hands together.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley scoffed. “Snake… you know. Weren’t meant to be toddling around vertical all the bloody time…”

Aziraphale nodded, grinning as if sharing an old joke.

“But just so we’re clear,” Crowley said, shifting up onto his elbows and nodding towards Aziraphale’s now oil slick hands, “That is… lube, yeah?”

Aziraphale looked down at the innocuous little bottle, pursing his lips. “Ah, well…” he shrugged. “It is a… multi-purpose… body oil?”[14]

“Right,” Crowley flopped onto the pillow, burying his face in it. “Do your worst, angel,” he mumbled into the soft fabric. “These shoulders are beyond fucked up. I’m warning you… we’re talking some serious knots, here.”

“Really, dear?” said Aziraphale, climbing up onto the bed next to Crowley. “You might have said. Have you been in pain?”

Crowley coughed something like a laugh into the pillow, resettling himself with his arms overhead. “Only usually.”

Aziraphale let out a little _-tsk-_ , fussing with the blankets, pushing them aside as he laid hands across Crowley’s naked shoulders. “Well,” he said. “You might have told me, dear. We’ll put it to rights, not to worry.”

Crowley was somewhat doubtful that a bit of simple muscle manipulation could cure him of all that ailed his misaligned, serpentine spine, but he didn’t argue. Anything Aziraphale had to offer certainly couldn’t hurt. And anyway, it did feel nice.

“Now, let me just…” Aziraphale leaned against Crowley’s back, palms flat against his bare skin, and shifted to find a better position to sit in. “Is it alright dear, if I…”

He straddled Crowley, placing one leg on either side of his body, and settled himself onto the backs of Crowley’s thighs, sitting on him, effectively pinning him to the bed. Crowley went stiff in surprise, but quickly recovered. “Ah,” he said, tugging the pillow to his face. “Nnng, s’fine.”

“Oh, good,” said Aziraphale primly. “That’s much better.”

Crowley sighed, already settling into the soothing sensation of thick fingers digging deep into his neck and shoulder muscles. Then, almost as quickly, he was startled by a sudden tingling sensation on his skin. He flinched, turning his head to get a better look at the soft white glow that had suddenly lit up the room. “What are you doing?”

“I’m…” Aziraphale lifted his hands, “Massaging you. Is something wrong?”

“Are your bloody hands glowing?” Crowley grunted in disbelief, craning his neck for a better look.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, looking down at his own hands as if he’d just noticed them. “Well, yes.”

Crowley stammered out some inarticulate noise. “An—and… would you care to tell me… why… they’re doing that?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, looking a bit confused. “They always do that, dear boy.”

Crowley scoffed, “They absolutely do not. I think I’d have noticed by now if you went around with glowing hands all the time.”

“Not _always_ always,” said Aziraphale, rolling his eyes. “I meant, they always do that during healing.”

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, turning on his side so as to get a better look at the angel and immediately regretting it, realizing he’d just placed himself beneath the angel straddling him. He was looking up at him face-to-face in a position that had already been a touch too intimate. “Uh…” he scrabbled back to one side, freeing himself from between Aziraphale’s legs. “Did you say, healing?”

“Well yes,” shrugged Aziraphale. “What did you think I was going to do? Simply rub your muscles with human hands and hope for the best? Crowley, if you’ve got real… deep-in-your-bones pain… I’ll have to apply at least a _little_ miraculous healing energy.”

“So basically,” Crowley nearly choked on the words as he said them out loud, “You’re b—blessing me. Me? A demon? You do realize how mad that sounds?”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew soft, gazing tenderly down at Crowley in a way that made something in the demon’s chest turn vaguely gelatinous. Annoying, how he could do that.

“But my dear,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to stroke a wayward tuft of Crowley’s hair, “You’re already quite blessed.”

Crowley gulped audibly. “Wot?”

“You can’t have spent as much time around me all these millennia as you have without being blessed… just a little bit.” He frowned, eyes searching Crowley’s for anything beyond confusion — fear or pain, specifically. “It didn’t hurt you, did it? It shouldn’t.”

“Uh,” Crowley looked askance. “Don’t think so. More of a weird… tingling sort of thing?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale grinned, a bit mischievously. “Tingling can be _very_ nice.”

Crowley cleared his throat, scrabbling back into position and burying his face in the pillow once more. “Yeah, all right, angel. Carry on then, I guess.”

Aziraphale resettled himself on top of Crowley again, the soft blankets bunching between them, and placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulder blades. A warm, penetrating heat radiated from his palms, making Crowley sigh at the comfort of it. He breathed deep into the pillows, trying to center himself, flinching only slightly every time Aziraphale’s hands glided across his skin, leaving little sparks of holiness in their wake.

“All right, dear?” Aziraphale would ask at intervals, every time Crowley twitched.

“S’fine. Bound to happen — pure evil meeting holiness head on, as it were.”

He could hear the playful grin in Aziraphale’s reply. “Pure evil? Oh, don’t be silly. There’s never been an ounce of evil in you, dearest.”

Crowley lay still, contemplating this. “Think you might be a bit biased, angel.”

Aziraphale giggled, reaching for the bottle of oil and slicking his hands with a liberal application, moving down Crowley’s arms, squeezing the biceps. He coaxed Crowley’s hands out from under the pillows, pressing his forearms into the mattress at his sides. “I suppose that’s possible, but I’m not wrong. I think I knew that very first day, up on the wall. We’d been talking for maybe twenty minutes before I realized you were nothing at all like the demons I’d been warned about.”

“You…” Crowley took a deep breath. They’d never really talked about this, even after so much time. “You did?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said fondly, remembering. “And for years, for centuries after that, I convinced myself it was some sort of trick, some glamour or something — you trying to fool me into thinking you could be trusted. Oh,” he paused, moving his hands away. “I’m quite thoroughly ashamed now, my dear, at how long it took me to finally realize that was…” he sighed. “That was just you. No tricks. The real trick was…”

Crowley rolled over, suddenly needing to see the angel’s eyes. “What?”

Aziraphale smiled, his eyes crinkling with love as he gazed down at Crowley — then, just as quickly, grew sad. “You were so heartbroken, after the crucifixion.”

Crowley froze, glancing aside to stare at the coverlet.

“It didn’t make any sense to you. Do you remember what we did that night?”

“We got drunk. Drunk out of our minds.”

“No, darling,” Aziraphale corrected. “You did. I sat there with you, quite sober.”

Crowley licked his lips, remembering. Because of course he remembered. Sure, he’d been about as close to blackout drunk as a demon could get at the time, but he remembered.

How could She? How could She see how he’d suffered, how he’d cried out in agony, and just let it go on?

So many desperate questions without answers, questions that Crowley had flung like daggers in the angel’s general direction, all that night. He’d hurled jugs of wine and jars of oil at the hard ground, watching them shatter like his heart, breaking into little pieces that could never be restored.

And at the end of it, once he’d worn himself out to the point of exhaustion, he’d slumped to the ground and wept.

And Aziraphale, who had sat watching him silently all night, had finally risen to his feet. Without so much as a word, he’d walked over, gathered Crowley tenderly against his chest, and wrapped his wings around them both while Crowley sobbed.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Well.”

Aziraphale smoothed one hand over Crowley’s chest, gazing down at him ever so fondly. “I decided right then that it couldn’t possibly be any kind of act. You weren’t anything like the others, and you were clearly so full of love, and struggling with an inner conflict that…”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to look away. “…that wasn’t really so different from my own.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “You had doubts, angel? Even back then?”

Aziraphale huffed a little laugh, looking back to lock eyes with Crowley. “Oh, of course I did, dear. I sat there, all that dark night, listening to you shout all those questions and accusations at Heaven that I… Many of which I’d wondered about, myself. The only real difference between us was that you refused to be silent. You gave voice to the things I didn’t dare say. You were always braver than me, like that.”

They stared at each other for a beat before Crowley rose, lifting himself up on his elbows, to seize Aziraphale with a feverish kiss, pouring into it every ounce of adoration he held within him.

Aziraphale was the first to pull away, smiling against Crowley’s lips as he did. “Anyway,” he said. “No sense dwelling on such old, sad memories, is there?”

“I fucking love you, angel,” Crowley sighed, fighting to keep the tears from pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“I know, darling. And I adore you. And you deserve to be adored. And one day, I am going to successfully convince you of that fact.”

Crowley squirmed, frowning. “Ngk…”

“Now then,” Aziraphale cooed, trailing light flourishes of his fingers across Crowley’s shoulders and chest, “any other _injuries_ in need of treatment, dear?” His fingertips tickled Crowley’s nipples as they brushed by, and he felt a little jolt of electricity that he wasn’t sure whether he should attribute to Aziraphale’s healing holy touch or… just simple stimulation.

“Uh…” Crowley’s face was hot, and he suddenly regretted having flipped over, nothing between him and Aziraphale’s loving gaze but the soft white blankets wrapped over his lower body. “Well…” he said, biting his bottom lip to keep from shaking all over. He wasn’t sure it was working, aware of a slight tremble starting in his fingertips, which were thankfully all tucked away beneath the blankets.

Aziraphale leaned in closer, placing a chaste kiss over the serpentine mark at Crowley’s temple, making him shiver. “It’s all right dear. Tell me where it hurts. I’ll make it all better.”

 _Fucking hell_ … thought Crowley. _Does he know what he’s saying? Is he trying to seduce me?_

Surely, _surely_ , he must know. Crowley had carried out enough temptations in his own time to know a double entendre when he heard one, and Aziraphale had more than proven that he was no innocent blushing maiden. He knew exactly what he was doing, the fucking bastard.

“Uh,” Crowley said, and this time he couldn’t quite manage to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Yeah. Well, ya know. Legs.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, shifting from where he’d been hovering over Crowley’s upper body, scooting down the mattress and repositioning the blankets to gather Crowley’s legs into his own lap. “Say no more, my dear.”

He smoothed more of the velvety liquid over Crowley’s skin, starting at the ankle. He worked his way down, taking a vaguely scaled foot between his hands and driving his thumbs carefully into the arch, pressing hard against the tendons here.

“Ungh,” Crowley moaned, flopping back onto the pillows. “Oh, angel... Fuck.”

Aziraphale’s hands glided against the demon’s skin, and Crowley opened his eyes, sparing a peek for the soft holy light he could now see pressing brightly even against his closed eyelids — and oh, someone help him — Aziraphale was a vision, his head haloed in glimmering radiance, his hands glowing with love. As his fingers worked their way slowly up to Crowley’s calf muscles, little twinges of static sparked against Crowley’s skin, but he endured it gladly, because every inch of him that Aziraphale applied attention to simmered with pleasure and comfort afterwards.

He applied the same attention to the other leg, and when he came to Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale glanced up, seeking permission. Crowley nodded dumbly, quite unable to speak. The angel smiled, gently pressing Crowley’s leg to one side. He grasped the pale, lightly freckled thigh, driving his fingers into the muscles there. He glanced up to meet Crowley’s eyes again when the demon hissed in response to the little shock coursing its way through his flesh at every new touch.

“S’fine,” he hissed, trembling under Aziraphale’s consideration. “M’good.”

When Aziraphale answered, Crowley was startled by the deep timbre of his voice, like something ancient and eldritch and powerful, echoing off the walls. “Fear not, my beloved.”

It occurred to Crowley that he might dismiss this as both the most cliche and unhelpful thing an angel ever _could_ say.[15] Alternately, he could argue against the implication, but this denial would be quite fruitless. He was naked in front of the angel, and Aziraphale was glowing with more holiness by the second, and Crowley _was_ afraid. Any demon would be. He’d be a fool to deny it.

It would also be quite foolish to deny it was having another… very different sort of effect on him.

Aziraphale smiled, and his face beamed like the sun. Extra sets of electric blue eyes were popping out on his cheeks, forehead, and neck, and they were all crinkled in gentle mirth. His wings were blinking in and out of the visible plane, finally settling into the space behind him, blindingly white and emanating even more light, filling every corner of the room.

“My darling,” he said, and it occurred to Crowley just now that Aziraphale’s lips were closed — the voice wasn’t coming from his mouth — “Thou art most cherished, and highly favored.”

And, _oh, fuck_ … he could feel it. Crowley could feel every ounce of angelic love flowing from Aziraphale’s fingertips, bathing him in acceptance and adoration. He began to cry, quite involuntarily, caught up in grace and unconditional devotion the likes of which he hadn’t felt since before the Fall — long before, if he were quite honest. The last time he could remember feeling love like this poured out over him like so much anointing oil, he’d been finishing up work on the Milky Way, quite proud and satisfied with his own artistic flourishes. She’d been proud of him too. That was the last time he’d felt Her praise, and the memory welled up in his throat, coming out as a hiccuping sob.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale said, his ethereal voice cutting through Crowley’s tormented memories. “Thou art worthy of all praise, and love, and the satisfaction of your every desire.”

Crowley’s breath was coming in gasps now, overwhelmed by so much positive reinforcement being lavished on him. He sat up, curling into Aziraphale’s chest, and hid in the angel’s robes, which he’d only been dimly aware of, until now — but at some point, the soft grey shirt and blue pajama pants had become brilliantly white robes, rustling in a supernatural breeze.

He made a decision then, a shift that happened in one blink, almost without conscious thought. And then it was there, between his legs, and it was suddenly very… _very_ interested.

“A—angel,” he managed to say, still clinging to Aziraphale’s robes like some kind of ethereal security blanket.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale said, words slipping soothingly from his actual mouth this time, sounding altogether normal, even though his face still blazed bright and blinding when Crowley dared a glance upwards.

He looked away just as quickly, pressing his cheek to Aziraphale’s body. “I, uh… You’re terrifying. But, I think I like this.”

Aziraphale hummed approval, and something like chimes danced on the air, little pealing bells of satisfied angelic laughter. “I’m so glad, my darling,” he said with his corporeal mouth, moving to plant a kiss on Crowley’s forehead.

His wings, fully visible and solid now, moved to engulf Crowley, hugging him closer. Aziraphale leaned down, lifting Crowley’s chin with one hand to meet his eyes. “And have we massaged away all your pain, my love?”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed, not quite able to focus on Aziraphale’s eyes, because they were now blazing a bright blue, like hydrocarbon-fueled flames. “Angel, nothing hurts right now.”

Aziraphale’s face softened, and the ten or so eyes dotted across his cheeks and forehead all closed in unison, blinking thoughtfully. That shouldn’t have been so endearing, but there it was.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley shifted, leaning his head against the angel’s shoulder. “I uh, ought to tell you something.”

“What’s that, love?”

“I’ve… I’ve got a…” Crowley hesitated, feeling stupid for being so anxious, even now. “There’s something between my legs.”

A ripple of something like satisfied amusement rolled off of Aziraphale, and the exposed skin of his collarbone was covered in rapidly blinking eyes, looking around in every direction.

“I know, my dear boy,” he said, reaching around to squeeze Crowley’s shoulders with strong arms, wings fluttering closer against them, feathersoft against Crowley’s naked back.

A whole new collection of eyes appeared, dotting the surface of Aziraphale’s skin, and when Crowley looked up, a set of white wings had unfurled from the crown of his head, fluttering back and forth over and away from his face, always moving.

“Angel,” Crowley marveled. “You sure you’re a… Principality?”

“Shhh,” Aziraphale soothed. “Only in my heart of hearts, dearest.”[16]

He kissed him, then, soft and probing, warm wet tongue exploring Crowley’s mouth like it was a treasured thing, to be handled with utmost care. His hands went under Crowley’s arms, lifting him up and repositioning him bodily so Crowley straddled one of Aziraphale’s knees.

“You may press against me, darling,” he said, voice still soft and gentle. “See how you like it.”

Crowley froze, suddenly realizing just how wet he already was, his cunt grinding hard into Aziraphale’s leg, the slippery silk of his robes rising up to meet Crowley’s newly-formed sex.

“Ah,” he let out a little cry, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s chest. “Jesus, angel.”

“Language, darling…”

“Guh,” Crowley grunted, his tongue going forked in his mouth. “Sssssorry.”

Another ripple of amusement radiated from Aziraphale, and he pressed his knee ever so slightly upwards, reveling in satisfaction when the demon leaned into it, letting out a little moan of pleasure at the sensation.

Crowley slid forward, sitting down on Aziraphale’s thigh, his shins pressed into the mattress beneath them, and hid his face in the curve of the angel’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he sighed. “Aziraphale…”

“Whatever you like, beloved,” Aziraphale cooed in Crowley’s ear, kissing him there. “Take only what you want.”

Crowley began to move then, and found it suddenly quite difficult to even consider the possibility of stopping.

“Ungh,” he groaned, the muscles in his legs tightening with something he’d observed (and caused) in others countless times, but never experienced for himself. “Angel… I… I don’t…”

“That’s all right, darling,” Aziraphale placed one hand on the back of Crowley’s head, petting his hair. “You go right ahead. This is entirely for you.”

“Hnggg…” Quickly, it happened so quickly, Crowley thought. He must have been on the edge longer than he’d realized, because almost as soon as the words escaped Aziraphale’s lips, urging Crowley to let go and take what he liked, something warm and unmistakable was coursing through his lower body — waves of pleasure, staggered and unpracticed, washing over him and making every muscle in his thighs and in between clench tight, searching for more of the overwhelming and uncontrollable sensation.

It felt like falling, in the best possible way, knowing Aziraphale would be there to catch him, would never let him crash against the hard ground, but instead would buoy him up in soft blankets and yielding pillows, shielding him behind soft white wings just as he had on that very first day in the Garden, a shelter against the rain. He wrapped his arms tightly around Aziraphale, sighing out sweet sounds of blissful agony in the angel’s ear as he came.

It was over almost before he’d known it was happening, and, satisfying though it was, Crowley nearly cried out in grief at its brevity. That was it? That was all he was going to get? He wanted more.

“My goodness,” said Aziraphale, pulling back to meet Crowley’s gaze.

All the extra eyes, the shimmering white wings, and the ethereal megaphone of a voice had faded away, leaving behind a marginally normal looking Aziraphale — the kind, tender angel Crowley was accustomed to looking at on a daily basis. “I think you must have needed that, darling,” he said, teasing, but brimming with love. He kissed Crowley’s mouth, moaning into it when Crowley bit down on his lip, hungry for more. He broke the kiss, beaming at Crowley, eyes still alight with holy fire. “I don’t think you’re quite finished. Are you, dearest?”

“N-no,” Crowley muttered, clutching Aziraphale’s shoulders, digging his fingernails in like he was holding on for dear life. “P-please, angel. More.”

“Greedy little thing,” Azirapale teased, smoothing one hand tenderly down Crowley’s spine. “And you call _me_ a hedonist.”

“Angel,” Crowley moaned, reveling in the slick slide of himself as he moved away from Aziraphale’s thigh, “You can call me whatever you want, as long as you make that happen again, please.”

Aziraphale looked pointedly down at the large wet spot on his thigh, glistening in the light of his own halo (which was still very much present, illuminating the crown of his head), and let out a deep, shuddering sigh.

“Oh,” he said, voice ragged, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. By your leave, I intend to make that happen… many more times before this day comes to an end.”

He snapped his fingers, miracling some extra pillows into the space between Crowley and the headboard, and leaned forward to kiss him again.

 _Sweetheart_?

Crowley felt his heart might burst out of his chest at that new endearment. He gulped audibly, and let Aziraphale press him softly backwards to recline against the pillows.

The angel propped himself up over Crowley, one hand pressed hard into the mattress, easily holding his own weight. “Is it all right,” he asked, the other hand sliding easily up Crowley’s thigh and clutching him lightly at the place where pelvis met leg, “If I touch you here?”

“Mhmm,” Crowley nodded desperately, struck dumb like Zechariah for his disbelief.[17] The comparison seemed fitting — Crowley could never have believed it could be this good, this all-encompassingly wonderful.

Aziraphale’s traveling hand glowed softly again, leaving little shivers in its wake as it moved across the expanse of Crowley’s belly and hip bones, dipping lower between his thighs, the intended destination becoming quite obvious. “And here?”

Crowley was panting, building to that cliff’s edge again, and he understood now that this time wouldn’t be the last, either. “Y-yes,” he croaked. “Yes, please, angel.”

“And so polite, my dear,” Aziraphale nearly purred, pressing warm fingers into the space between Crowley’s legs — slow, infuriatingly tender.

Crowley rolled his neck, turning his face to nuzzle against Aziraphale’s forearm where it stood, solid as a tree rising out of the blankets. He moaned, tensing at the sensation of Aziraphale’s other hand pressing slowly but firmly into Crowley’s cunt, moving almost imperceptibly upwards now, gently searching for…

“Ahh!” Crowley’s eyes shot open, his spine arched, and his hands curled instinctively in the blankets, shocked by the suddenness with which Aziraphale found his clit. “Fuck, angel!”

Aziraphale pulled his hand away, but otherwise didn’t move, watching Crowley’s face closely for any trace of fear as the demon stared up at him in awe.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale soothed. “That’s all right, darling.”

He looked down, watching the little trail of slick that clung to his hand, stretching across the space from his fingertips to Crowley’s body, and smiled. “Gracious,” he marveled at it. “How hungry you are. You’re salivating.”

Crowley looked up at him, wide-eyed, his chest rising with increasingly urgent breaths.

Aziraphale sat back on his heels, smirking at Crowley. He held his fingers up, glistening wet, so the demon could see them.

“Yeah,” Crowley made an attempt at casual. “And?”

Aziraphale positioned his hand into the sign of the Benediction, crossed himself reverently, and then took the outstretched index and middle fingers eagerly into his mouth, sucking them.

“Mmm…” His brow furrowed at the sweet salty taste of Crowley’s wetness. “Delicious.”

“Angel,” Crowley gasped. “Fucking Christ.”

He looked like a goddamn Renaissance painting, Crowley thought, unable to do little more than lie there, amazed at the holy, filthy vision before him. Aziraphale, clad in silken white robes (still fluttering slightly in that impossible, ethereal breeze) sucking hungrily on the two fingers he’d just used to make the sign of the Cross, fingers dripping with Crowley’s own slick. His wings spread out behind him, framing this pretty picture, and his halo blazed like a star going supernova.

The angel watched him through lidded eyes, turning it into a show for Crowley’s benefit — letting the fingers slide free of his mouth, gliding over an exposed, glistening tongue.

“Do you feel properly blessed yet, my dear?”

Crowley’s cheeks turned red for at least the third time that morning. “Uh, angel… I’m not sure that’s how that… works.”

“Well, I’m the holy one,” Aziraphale grinned, leaning back in, slipping his now freshly moistened fingers over Crowley’s hyper-sensitive clitoris, “so I think I ought to know.”

“Ungh,” Crowley leaned back against the pillowed headboard, pressing his feet into the mattress, and rising to meet Aziraphale’s hand, thrusting into it harder with each little undulation of the angel’s fingers. “Angel, Aziraphale. Fuck… somebody…”

“Well, yes,” teased Aziraphale, high on the satisfaction of watching Crowley come to pieces beneath him. “Namely you.” He quickened the pace, sliding slick fingers more urgently against Crowley’s sex, and watched with fascination as the demon closed his eyes, twisted one leg to the side, and seized, rocking his hips up and down, chasing the orgasm to his second finish.

Aziraphale had never really imagined it would be like this. He’d always thought of Crowley taking charge, at least in the beginning. Crowley the tempter, Crowley the suave, sexy demon who was just too lovely to be hampered by such things as scars or boils on his beautiful, angular face — no, no. This was a pretty demon, which made him even more dangerous, tantalizing — perfectly designed to ensnare unsuspecting soft angels.

But the moment they’d crawled into bed together, maybe even before, Aziraphale had realized exactly how this was going to go. Crowley was completely inexperienced in seeking his own pleasure — he’d confessed as much. And Aziraphale was perfectly happy to lead the way. He’d just not quite realized how much he was going to enjoy it. 

This was better than any dessert he’d ever tasted. So he set about devouring Crowley — slowly, with the sort of focused attention he’d learned to apply to any worthwhile, decadent meal over the centuries he'd spent enjoying fine cuisine. Methodical, reflective, patient.

He charted little circles around Crowley’s clit, occasionally dipping further south to stroke the soft folds that lead deeper into his body, but never probing too far.

At one point he lowered himself close enough to whisper in Crowley’s ear, “Sweetheart,” and the way Crowley positively quivered under the application of that endearment was not lost on Aziraphale, “Darling. Would you like me to?” He stroked upwards, isolating a single finger and toying it teasingly around the opening. “A finger inside, perhaps?”

Crowley immediately went tense, slamming his legs tightly together, shaking his head. “Ah,” he said, “S-sorry, angel. I—”

Aziraphale was pressing soft kisses to his mouth before he could finish speaking, withdrawing his hand completely long enough to gather Crowley up in his arms, settling back on his heels, and propping Crowley up onto his lap. “Answer received, dearest. That’s a ‘no,’ then.”

Crowley emitted something between a sigh and a sob, thrusting his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth in a hungry reciprocity of the kiss, wrapping his legs and arms around Aziraphale, riding his torso much as he had done his thigh, earlier.

“Are you just going to make a toy of me, then?” Aziraphale chastised him, teasing. “I’m beginning to feel somewhat objectified, my dear. And you’re ruining these robes.”

“That’s true,” sighed Crowley, humping pointedly against Aziraphale’s hip. “So, I guess you’d better just take them off, then?”

Aziraphale smiled, raising his hand into the air. “I thought you’d never ask.” He snapped his fingers, banishing the robes into non-existence with one quick miracle.

“Now then,” he said, gently taking hold of Crowley’s knees to separate them, “How many was that, last time?”

“Satan’s sake, angel,” Crowley sighed, leaning back against Aziraphale’s now naked chest. “I lost count.”

“I _think_ that was six,” Aziraphale squinted, “though I could be mistaken.”

“Sure,” Crowley panted, sweat cooling on his brow. “Six. Six sounds about right. But they tend to run together after a fashion, don’t they? Like, one building into the next? Sort of just… comes in waves?”

“Mhmm,” agreed Aziraphale, placing his hand between Crowley’s slightly spread legs, just lightly palming him there, petting. “That’s true, my dear.” He nuzzled Crowley’s throat, kissing him there, “Do you think you can manage one more? Seven is an auspicious number, you know. It would be a good omen.”[18]

Crowley visibly crumpled into Aziraphale’s arms, groaning. “Dunno, angel,” he said. “I’m pretty tired, already.”

Aziraphale leaned over Crowley, letting him slide onto his back, and kissing him upside down. “My dear,” he sighed. “I must tell you, I’ve eaten some truly splendid meals in my time…” He crawled on all fours, pressing kisses down Crowley’s chest as he went, taking one pert nipple into his mouth and sucking on it. He watched Crowley watching him as it popped free of Aziraphale’s wet, pink lips. “But you are making my mouth water.”

Crowley swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Oh yeah?” he said, mouth open. “Got quite an appetite on you, angel. You’re always fucking hungry.”

“Famished, darling.” He turned to face Crowley as he worked his way down the length of his body, settling himself between the demon’s legs. “And don’t you look like just the most delightful little picnic, all laid out on these sheets as you are?” He paused, smirking. “We never did go on that picnic, did we?”

Crowley was beet red, breathing hard again. “No time like the present, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckled, laughing into the curve of Crowley’s inner thigh. “I couldn’t agree more.”

A set of celestial eyes popped open on Aziraphale’s cheek again. The angel was forgetting himself. It did something to Crowley, knowing the impact he was having on the angel’s ability to contain his true form.

“Right then,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to lightly grip the outside of Crowley’s thighs, “I should tell you, I’ve never actually done this before…”

“I’ve seen you eat, angel,” Crowley sighed, his nether regions already wet again with anticipation. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh, and then grew serious, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the wet, delicate skin between Crowley’s legs.

“Hnn!” Crowley flinched under the localized touch.

“Shh,” Aziraphale soothed, and the brush of warm breath from his mouth made Crowley squirm even more.

“Fuck, angel. M’too far gone for this…”

Aziraphale raised his head slightly, catching Crowley’s wild eyes where he was watching him from the mountain of pillows. “Hush,” he said firmly. “You’re fine.”

The angel reapplied himself to the task, burying his nose in the yielding flesh around Crowley’s clit, reveling in the scent and taste of it.

“Fuck! _Aziraphale_!” Crowley writhed, arching his back.

Aziraphale reached up, cording his forearms through the curve of Crowley’s bent knees, pressing strong hands down on his hip bones, pinning him to the mattress. “Don’t you dare,” he said, coming up just long enough to suck in a hurried breath.

“Angaah!” Crowley let out a strangled cry, forced to endure the touch of plush wet lips on his already overstimulated sex, rather than wriggling away. “Angel, _please_!” He was already whimpering with reawakened need.

“Please what?” Aziraphale whispered against slippery flesh, letting his tongue dart out in experimental motions against Crowley’s swollen clit.

“Hnggg!”

Aziraphale grinned, full up and drunk on love, glancing aside just long enough to notice his forearms were covered in wide, rapidly blinking eyes again. He didn’t — couldn’t care. Couldn’t have stopped them if he’d tried. Just as quickly, he returned his full attention to Crowley. “Use your words, darling. Tell me what you need.”

“Nnn — need to come, angel, please!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looked up, his expression one of false innocence. “I thought you were tired?”

Crowley growled, his pupils blown wide and dark, teeth bared. Aziraphale could have sworn they were sharper than usual, particularly the canines. His tongue had gone fully serpentine, the little fork making his speech slur clumsily over his ’S’ words. “Ssshut up and eat me, you unrepentant teassse!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale remarked, dipping his head back between Crowley’s legs. “Very well, then.” He hummed with pleasure when Crowley’s thighs pressed urgently on either side of his face, constricting around him. _So much like a snake_ , he couldn’t help thinking, making Crowley flinch again at the sound and sensation of angelic laughter on the air around them, and the whisper soft giggles of Aziraphale’s mouth on his body.

Crowley’s ankles crossed behind Aziraphale’s back, tugging him incessantly closer, and the demon’s hands went instinctively into his hair, clasping urgently at white curls.

“Angel!” He cried out suddenly.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale replied, very busy lapping his tongue into the folds of Crowley’s cunt, and not interested in forming real words anymore if he could avoid it.

“Want more of you,” he gasped. “Want to see you. Want all of you.”

This gave Aziraphale pause, and he looked up at Crowley, making sure he’d understood correctly.

Several more eyes had appeared on his now softly glowing face, Crowley noted. It made something in him rise to the occasion, his pulse thrumming in his ears and in his cunt. “Please, angel. Anoint me? Bless me? Show me all of you.”

“I can do better than that, dear,” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley by the hips and shoving him upwards, bracing his back against the headboard, holding him there. “I can raise you up,” Aziraphale sighed, releasing every bit of holy energy he’d been holding in check.

Now that he was naked, Aziraphale’s entire form glowed, and Crowley gasped at the little crackles of lightning that shot through his body everywhere the angel was touching him, holding him fast against the wall. “I can put you on a fucking pedestal,” Aziraphale continued as eyes opened all over his body, unmoving and unblinking now, and every last one of them locked on Crowley. His main set of eyes, the ones he always had, fell closed, brow furrowing, as if in prayer. “I can _worship_ you.”

Crowley’s fingers stayed tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, and his eyes went wide in silent shock as the headwings unfurled again, fluttering insistently against the backs of his hands. From this new vantage point above Aziraphale, he could see the final set of little wings where they burst out of Aziraphale’s ankles, dancing across his feet where they dug into the sheets for traction.

And then Aziraphale’s tongue was attacking his cunt again, and Crowley didn’t see anything. That crackled with electricity too, and before he knew it he was rocking into Aziraphale’s holy mouth, on the brink of yet another climax.

When he came, it was more powerful than all the previous orgasms combined, like he’d just been storing up energy before, charging reserves for this final explosion of pleasure. His legs clenched involuntarily around Aziraphale’s back, pressing against powerful, muscled wings for purchase. He folded almost in half, holding onto the back of Aziraphale’s head like he might fly away otherwise, and releasing a litany of curses, blessings, and expletives not fit for the ears of angels, directly into the back of Aziraphale’s neck. His own wings burst out of his shoulder blades, beating wildly against the wall behind him, the curtains, the bedposts; knocking objects from the bedside table in his mindless desperation for more contact.

The angel’s hands shifted in one swift movement, releasing Crowley’s hips and going under his backside to lift him higher. His tongue shifted too, moving slowly, steadily, riding Crowley’s quivering clitoris in a steady rhythm until he was quite spent.

Through all of this, that ethereal voice whispered on the air, like murmuring chatter overlapping in a crowded room. “Holy, holy, holy,” it said, as if uttering soft secrets into Crowley’s ear. “Most treasured, highly cherished — thou art blessed and honored above all others — I worship thee, I lie at thy feet — most beloved Child of God.”

Crowley slumped against the hands that held him up, burying his face in Aziraphale’s hair, wet with tears. He was sobbing uncontrollably, his breath coming in little hyperventilating gasps.

Aziraphale held him there for a moment, just letting Crowley cry, before gradually tipping his head backwards to look up at him. “Are you ready to come down, my love?” he said, pressing his forehead against Crowley’s.

The demon’s face contorted, breaking down into more shuddering little sobs, but he nodded, letting his hands glide down to Aziraphale’s shoulders, crumpling into him as Aziraphale lowered him slowly down.

The next several minutes were filled with gentle reassurances, kisses pressed against lips, cheeks, shoulders, wrists, trembling hands. Aziraphale’s true form had faded back into his corporeal body, and it was only the familiar, musical voice of the soft angel he’d known for six thousand years that whispered sweet nothings into Crowley’s ears, reminding him over and over how beautiful he was, and how precious, and how loved.

Finally they both lay on the bed, hands entwined, just breathing.

“Hng…” Crowley rolled over, flopping heavily against the still damp sheets. “Bloody Hell, angel… Is that what they mean when they say a massage comes with a ‘happy ending?’”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose that might count toward _several_ happy endings, don’t you think?”

Crowley smiled, brighter that Aziraphale had ever seen him. “Fair point,” he rasped, looking sleepy and satisfied, not in any mood to argue.

Aziraphale beamed in response, reaching up to ruffle Crowley’s hair. “Are you happy, darling?”

Crowley continued to pant, gasping for breath. “Definitely,” he said, smiling up at his angel. _His_ angel; something tugged in his chest at the thought of that, the inherent truth of it. “Can we do that again sometime, do you think?”

“Oh, absolutely, my dear.” Aziraphale shifted to one side, curling around Crowley’s body protectively. “Consider me available to bathe you in holy adoration anytime you like.”

“I sort of more meant the sex part,” Crowley grimaced, a mixture of pleasure and terror shooting through his body at the idea of daily worship, of being laid bare before the overwhelming gaze of the angel’s all-seeing eyes.

Aziraphale laughed, pulling Crowley close in his arms. “Whatever you want, my dear,” he said. “And never anything you don’t.”

Crowley turned in Aziraphale’s arms to face him, burying his face in the angel’s neck. “Well, maybe like… weekly worship, then.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale perked up. “Like going to church!”

“Or…” Crowley backpedaled. “Couple times a month. Think I could stomach that, at least.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale mused thoughtfully. “All right, then.”

They lay there, in silence, for long minutes. It might have been hours — neither of them could be sure.

Eventually, as if no time had passed at all, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Speaking of stomachs, I don’t know about you, dear, but I do believe I’m hungry again.” He glanced toward the window, noting the dim light of sunrise peeking through. “What would you say to some breakfast?”

Crowley chuckled into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s throat. “I wouldn’t say no. How about that little French cafe that just opened in Westminster?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, already kicking himself free of the blankets. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

Crowley sat up, pulling Aziraphale back down and pressing a kiss against his smiling mouth. “Crêpes, angel?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale nodded, eyes wide with anticipation. “Crêpes. And after, perhaps a little more… dessert?”

Crowley shook his head, sighing. “You’re not letting these food metaphors go anytime soon, are you?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, already snapping his fingers and miracling his clothing back from where it hung in the closet. “Don’t pretend not to _love_ it.”

Crowley looked up at him, softly indulgent. “Come on, angel. Let’s go.” He crawled out of bed, relishing the stiff soreness lingering in his muscles. “I’m starving.”

* * *

14 Translation: Yes. Yes, it is. [return to text]

15 Right up there with, “All shall be revealed to you,” and “Our Lord is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. (S)He shall not abandon you.” [return to text]

16 Few angels had ever been demoted in all of cosmic history, (rather than just Falling altogether) but there were a few. At some point not long before the humans were created, Aziraphale had grown rather bored with singing eternal praises day after day, worthy of it though She may have been. He may or may not have feigned a sudden onset of laryngitis, resulting in the need for a reassignment to something less demanding on the ethereal vocal chords. And so he’d been sent to the wall, to watch over the Garden. Completely unrelated to this point, please see Merriam-Webster’s short description on the physical traits of seraphs. [return to text]

17 Father of John the Baptist. It was said that when the archangel Gabriel appeared to announce that Elizabeth (Zechariah’s wife) would give birth to a son, Zechariah doubted this, due to their advanced age, and asked the angel how this was possible. Gabriel was in a particularly foul mood that day, and shut the poor man up with a snap of his fingers, leaving him mute. It wasn’t until months later, on the child’s name day, that Gabriel remembered the man, and belatedly undid the curse. He played it off like it was all planned that way, but some of the other angels had their own doubts about that. [return to text]

18 Voice of God - Hey! That’s the name of the show! [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you so much for reading, friends! 
> 
> Let me first say that I had _entirely_ too much fun finding the perfect "sexual" dessert photos to use for chapter headers here. I look at pictures of food now and see obscenities where I would not have previously. Working on this fic and sexualizing whipped cream and glaze and chocolate drizzle has apparently awakened things in my psyche... 🤔🤣 My favorite is the one for chapter four, which I've taken to calling "strawberry bukkake." All of the images are free stock photos from Unsplash.com. It's a great resource for hi-resolution images of almost anything. Highly recommend! It's also where I get most of my chapter pictures for _Getting Sacked_. 
> 
> The emotions I've gone through while working on this fic since I started it way back in August 2019 have ranged from excited, amused, overwhelmed, and at times, utterly defeated. Sometimes, when you're working on a piece of writing, it can get so long and so sprawling that you just don't know how to wrangle it back into the thing you initially wanted it to be. There were times when this story got completely out of hand, and I wound up with probably well over 10,000 words that landed on the cutting room floor simply because it didn't fit the food/dessert theme, or it just wasn't moving the story forward in any measurable way. But then, as I was editing, new scenes got added, and existing scenes got revamped and expanded upon, resulting in an overall word count which wasn't that far off from what I'd started with. There were definitely days that I sat down to work on this fic and just wanted to give up and take a nap. I don't think I've ever been so relieved to have a project completed, and I think I'll need at least a week to decompress from it before I get back to any of my other long form projects. I may just write some silly little ficlets in the in between — something I don't have to think about or stress over too much, lol. 
> 
> All that being said, I wound up really liking this by the time I was done with it. Time will tell whether or not I come back here a year from now and cringe, but that's all part of the process of getting better at writing, isn't it?
> 
> Thank you to [runningturnip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningturnip/) for being my official GOBB beta reader, and to [Sidney_Quinn](Sidney_Quinn) and [killerqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueer/pseuds/killerqueer) for all your help with edits as well. To [pandarson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarson/pseuds/pandarson) — thank you for being just the most incredible artist. I love the piece you drew for this _so much_ , like I can't even express how much I love it. Not only did you turn out to be a great artist to collaborate with, I also love that I've made a new friend. 🥰 I know that we'll continue to scream about fandom nonsense in the future, and I wholeheartedly look forward to it. 
> 
> This was also my first time using the footnotes feature in Ao3, and I would have completely fallen on my face without coding tips from [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh). So, big thank you to her!
> 
> And to everyone in our Discord server, thank you for tolerating my screaming about and belly aching over this project for the last several months. You guys are all seriously the best and I so appreciate you.
> 
> And last but certainly not least (geez, I feel like I'm doing the Oscars or something, good grief... 🤣) thank you to the organizers of the [Good Omens Big Bang](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/) for putting this event together! It's been really fun and now that I'm finally done with this thing, I can't wait to go read everyone else's stories I've been saving to my "mark for later" section, haha!
> 
> In any case, I really hope you guys enjoyed this. I have come to love writing Aziraphale and Crowley _so_ so much. _Good Omens_ is definitely my favorite fanfiction sandbox at the moment. So, big thank you to Terry and Neil for giving us these fun toys to play with. I hope to god he never reads this. 😨
> 
> * * * 
> 
> Chat at me on [Tumblr](http://vgersix.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vgersixwrites) | Check out [my Ao3 profile page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/profile) for more info about current writing projects and more //
> 
> Much love,  
> Laura / vgersix  
>  _2/1/2020_


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